E.  Heron  “Allen 


L I E)  HA  FLY 
OF  THE 

U N I VEILS  ITY 
or  ILLINOIS 

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KISSES  OF  FATE 


(A  Study  of  mere  Human  Nature) 


EDWARD  HERON-ALLEN 


It  is  Life's  Law^  that  when  Fate  comes  with  kisses 
She  gives  thejii  on  the  eyes^  so  biindifig  us  ; 

And  we  look  up  again^  but  just  in  time 
To  catch  the  glint  o'  th'  blade  she  stabs  us  witht 
Not  to  prevent  it  . 

— Amelie  Rivbs. 


Chicago,  New  York,  and  San  Francisco 
BELFORD,  CLARKE  & CO. 
iSS8 


Copyright,  1888. 
BELFORD,  CLARKE  & CO. 


5^3 


Debication 


lln  flDemoriam 


To  Thee, — dear  Friend  of  mine, — I dedicate 
This  little  Book  that  has  been  wholly  Thine 
Since  long  before  Twas  written,  for  these  Tales 
Were  told  to  Thee,  invented  for  Thine  ear 
Alone.  If  aught  of  Purity  there  be, 

Or  any  Truths  be  found,  amid  my  Lines, 

’Tis  Thine  alone  the  Glory  of  their  Good, 

For, — telling  them,  through  the  long  Winter 
nights, — 

I watched  Thine  Eyes,  all-fearful  lest  a sign 
Of  Thy  Displeasure  should  shine  out  from  them 
At  aught  I said.  And  when  I took  the  Pen 
In  hand  to  tell  these  Tales  of  mine  once  more, 
Mine  only  thought  was  of  the  moment  when 
Thine  Eyes  should  con  my  little  Book  and  learn, 
— Taught  by  whatever  Good  there  be  in  it, — 
That,  writing  it,  I laboured  but  for  Thee. 

E.  H-A. 


New  Yorky  1887, 


To  Thee  once  more  I dedicate  these  Tales 
Of  mine, — more  worthy  now,  since  more  com- 
plete ; 

And,  blazoning  anew  Thy  Name  upon 

The  fore-front  of  my  Book,  men's  , eyes  to  greet, 

I lay  a perfect— yet  imperfect — whole 

At  Thy  dear  feet. 

Yet  there  are  those  who  have  declared  it  all 
Unworthy  Thine  acceptance. — Ah,  my  Sweet  I 
Could  I but  make  a Story  worthy  Thee, 

None  then  would  dare  my  page  to  criticise, 

For  then  my  Tale  would  be  so  pure,  and  free 
From  any  blemish, — ev'n  in  Thy  dear  eyes, — 
That  none  less  lovely  could  condemn,  nor  see 
The  merest  shadow  of  a thought  ill-said 
In  all  Thy  book:  — [for  surely  it  would  be 

Not  mine,  but  Thine  !] 

E.  H-A. 

New  York,  1888. 


Foreword  by  Way  of  Explanation. 

4 

At  the  moment  that  these  sheets  are  ready  to 
leave  the  printer’s  hands,  I am  told  that  my  title, 
like  that  under  which  these  stories  were  announced, 
and  “Sylvester  Gray”  was  published,  requires  a 
word  of  explanation. 

A recent  writer  has  said  : “The  roses  fade  fastest 
when  the  sun  is  brightest,  and  when,  on  returning 
to  the  garden  at  evening,  we  find  their  fallen  petals 
strewn  upon  the  ground,  we  shall  be  sorry  that  we 
did  not  gather  more  of  them  at  midday.”  The  fallen 
petals  of  the  Roses  that  promised  such  a wealth  of 
fragrance  for  the  morrow — the  broken  promises  of 
Youth  which  heralded  such  brilliancy  in  Age,  may 
be  called  “The  Kisses  of  Fate.”  The  Love  of 
To-day  becomes  too  often  the  Memory — the  Regret 
— of  To-morrow.  Happy  the  man  who  can  say — 
“The  Future  for  which  I strove  has  become  the 
Present  in  which  I exult ! ” — to  such  this  Cycle  of 
Stories  is  not  addressed,  but  to  the  infinitely  larger 
section  of  humanity  who  have  plucked  the  Dead- 
Sea  Fruit  of  Hope. 

The  reader  is  referred  to  Mr.  Edgar  Saltus’ 
“Philosophy  of  Disenchantment.” 

EDWARD  HERON^ALLEN, 

New  York,  U.  S.  A. 


May,  1 888. 


"the  arrow  which  is  shot 

COMES  NO-r  BACK." 


The  worldly  Hope  fnen  set  their  hearts  upon 
Turns  ASHES^  or  it  prospers^  and  anon 
( Like  Snow  upon  the  Deserfs  dusty  face  y, 
Lighting  a little  hour  or  two — is  gone  ! 


Ah!  Love^  could  You  and  I with  Hmi  conspire,^ 
To  grasp  this  sorry  Scheme  of  Things — entire. 
Would  we  not  shatter  it  to  bits^  and  the7i 

Remould  it  nearer  to  the  Hearfs  Desire  ? 

/ / 


OMAR-i^KHA  YYAM 


THE  SUIKIDE  OF  SYLVESTER  SRAY. 


PART  I. 

False?  Ah  ! no — hardly  that.  Dear  heart,  you  are 
not  to  blame. 

(Who  carps  at  the  sun,  or  the  fleeting  rain,  or  the 
transient  evening  dew  ?) 

And  I cavil  not  at  your  fair  young  soul  that  would 
fain — but  could  not — be  true. 

And  I love  you,  aye,  the  same  ! 

I. 

We  were  at  Harrow  together.  I remember 
so  well  the  first  time  I ever  saw,  or  spoke  to 
him ! It  seems  like  yester-year  instead  of  a 
quarter  of  a century  ago.  The  summer  term 
of  the  year  of  grace  i8 — was  two  days  old. 
For  two  days  past  the  historic  hill  wheron 
‘‘  Lyon  of  Preston,  yeoman  John,  full  many 
a year  ago,”  built  his  school,  had  been 
alive  with  a merry  swarm  of  boys  ranging 
in  age  from  fourteen  years  upwards,  clad 


lO 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


in  the  jacket  of  the  lower,  or  the  swallow- 
tails of  the  upper  school,  and  all  hatted 
alike  .with  the  shallow,  broad-brimmed  straw, 
kept  securely  in  its  place  by  an  elastic  be- 
hind the  head, — the  whole  constituting  the 
quaint  costume  in  which  the  authorities  and 
scholars  of  Harrow-on-the-Hill  see  nothing 
ridiculous.  The  whole  place  seemed  to  laugh, 
as  it  always  did  in  the  early  days  of  a new  term, 
as  if  amused  at  its  sudden  awakening  from 
the  quiet  weeks  of  the  holidays;  and  the  heat 
of  the  young  spring  sun  striking  the  red  brick 
of  the  old  schools,  of  the  Fourth  Form  Room, 
where  malefactors  received  condign  punish- 
ment, and  of  Speecher  ” (the  new  speech- 
room  had  not  then  been  built),  was  reflected 
upon  the  asphalt  of  the  “ school-yard,” 
causing  it  to  bubble  up  and  stick  to  the  feet 
of  the  enthusiasts  who  followed  one  another 
in  a long  queue^  bowling  yard-balls  ” at 
some  champion  of  the  school-yard  cricket 
wicket. 

I had  walked  up  the  hill,  past  Sam's,”  to 
the  school-yard,  with  my  hands  in  my  pockets 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


1 1 


— a Harrow  boy  never  under  any  circum- 
stances takes  his  hands  out  of  his  pockets ; — I 
had  read  the  first  notice-slips  of  the  term 
fluttering  upon  the  notice-board  at  the  gates; 
had  peered  into  the  cloisters  under  the  old 
speech-room,  and  had  wandered  away  to  the 
low  wall  at  the  top  of  the  steps  leading  to 
the  gymnasium,  leaning  upon  which  one 
looks  over  the  disused  Milling-ground  ” 
and  the  racquet-courts,  and  away,  away, 
away  over  the  fields,  past  Harrow  Weald  to 
Pinner,  and  Oxhey,  and  Bushey,  and  Wat- 
ford, twenty  miles  into  the  blue  distance 
towards  great  cities  in  which  many  of  us  were 
destined  to  play  our  parts  in  the  drama  of 
life,  and  towards  vast  oceans  which  we 
should  many  of  us  cross  before  Jong  in 
search  of  wealth  and  fame.  And  whilst  I 
leaned  upon  the  wall  and  fidgeted  with 
the  leaves  that  peeped  inquisitively  over  the 
coping,  deliberating  whether  it  was  worth 
while  to  walk  down  the  steps  to  the  gymna- 
sium or  no,  I became  aware  of  the  presence, 
a few  paces  distant,  of  a small  boy. 


12 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


When  I say  a small  boy  ” I do  not  mean 
that  his  stature  was  less  than  mine ; he  was 
about  my  height.  Nor  do  I mean  that  he 
was  younger  than  I ; indeed,  I subsequently 
knew  that  we  were  of  an  equal  age.  I say  a 
small  ” boy  because  I had  been  a Har- 
rovian ” for  two  terms  already,  and  felt  a 
veteran — and  a gigantic  one  to  boot — by  the 
side  of  the  new  fellow  ” who  stood  at  ray 
side.  He  was  of  the  ordinary  height  of  a 
boy  of  his  age,  neither  stunted  nor  run  to 
seed,  as  is  so  frequently  the  case  among 
school-boys  of  fourteen.  Boy  as  he  was,  I 
remember  that  he  was  beautifully  made,  thin 
in  the  flank,  deep  in  the  chest,  flat  in  the 
back,  and  straight  and  erect  from  the  lines  of 
the  legs  to  the  carriage  of  the  head.  He 
was  very  decidedly  a juvenile  swell.”  His 
clothes  fitted  him  with  a perfection  rare 
among  children  at  the  age  when  they  ‘‘  grow 
visibly ; ” they  were  cut  after  the  latest 
fashion  for  boys;  and  I remember  that  I, 
who  was  always  an  outrageously  slovenly 
person,  felt  for  his  attire  a mixture  of  envy 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


13 


and  contempt ; but  his  face  conquered  me — 
it  was  beautiful.  His  broad,  white  forehead 
and  deep,  violet  eyes  were  thrown  into 
shadow  by  the  broad  brim  of  his  Harrow 
hat,  from  beneath  which  there  escaped  the 
wavy  masses  of  his  hair,  whose  glossy  black- 
ness had  a tinge  of  deep  purple  brown  in  it 
which  gave  to  it  an  effect  of  wonderful 
warmth  and  life.  A straight,  Greek  nose  and 
finely-cut  mouth  completed  the  face,  which 
was  of  a yellowish  delicate  tint — a perfect 
‘‘  blanc  mat'"  complexion.  Young  as  I was, 
I was  charmed  by  this  juvenile  Adonis;  and 
edging  along  the  low,  red-brick  wall  so  as  to 
get  close  up  to  him,  I said : 

‘‘  Are  you  a new  fellow  ? ” 

Yes.’^ 

What’s  your  name  ? ” 

‘‘  Sylvester  Gray.” 

‘‘  Sylvester  Gray,”  thought  I,  what  a 
delightful  name  ! ” All  my  life  I had  longed 
for  such  an  one,  and  had  envied  the  “ Ronceval 
de  Courcy’s,”  the  “ Plantagenet  Fitzjames’s,” 
and  the  other  high-sounding  sponsorials  and 


14 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


patronymics  owned  by  the  heroes  of  inexpen- 
sive fiction.  My  father^s  name  was  Tompkins, 
and  my  godfathers  and  godmothers  in  my 
baptism  had  prefixed  thereto  the  unassuming 
prenomen  of ‘‘John,”  an  insult  which  J felt 
that  death  alone — my  death — could  wipe  out. 
I hold  firmly  to  a theory  that  a man  is 
heavily  handicapped,  as  regards  his  individu- 
ality, by  his  Christian  name.  Thus,  all  the 
Toms  I have  known  have  been  good-natured, 
and  rather  commonplace.  All  the  Charlies 
have  been  delightful  “ bad  lots,”  all  the 
Freds  have  been  rowdy,  all  the  Georges 
practical,  all  the  Franks  prigs,  all  the  Archies 
good,  all  the  Edwards  artistic,  and  so  on. 
Therefore,  to  give  a boy  one  of  these  charac- 
teristic names  weights  him  from  the  start 
with  a certain  prescribed  individuality.  But 
call  a boy  Sylvester,  or  some  name  of  that 
kind,  he  has  the  chance  of  moulding  himself 
on  an  unique  pattern ; — and  his  mother  has  a 
chance  of  helping  him. 

Thus  everything  about  him,  save  the  fact 
that  he  had  taken  on  entering  the  school  a 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


5 


form  above  the  one  I had  reached  after  two 
terms’  work,  attracted  me  to  Sylvester  Gray ; 
and  just  as  the  most  dissimilar  persons  often 
voluntarily  cast  in  their  lots  in  life  together, 
so  Sylvester  and  I swore  an  eternal  friendship 
in  the  old  school-yard  on  this  sunny  after- 
noon, and  strolled  oft,  arm-in-arm,  down  the 
zig-zag  pathway  of  our  lives. 

Nobody  liked  me  when  I was  a boy;  and 
looking  back  at  myself  after  the  lapse  of 
never-mind-how-many  years,  I am  really  not 
surprised.  In  the  first  place,  I was  very 
ugly,  and  that  makes  a great  deal  of  differ- 
ence in  the  life  of  a boy ; secondly,  I was 
rather  a fiend;  I was  quiet,  morose,  taci-. 
turn ; I hated  people  of  my  own  age,  and 
got  on  much  better  with  the  masters  than 
with  the  fellows  at  school.  I didn’t  care 
about  games.  The  hideous  combination  of 
colors  worn  by  the  Football  Team  had  no 
attraction  for  me  ; the  dark-colored  hat  of  the 
Cricket  Eleven,  the  badge  of  the  Rifle  Team, 
and  the  certificate  of  gymnastic  proficiency 
were  not,  for  me,  objects  of  envy.  On  half- 


6 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


holidays  I preferred  the  cool  and  quiet  of  the 
Vaughan  library  to  the  tumult  of  the  cricket- 
fields  and  the  racquet-courts,  or  better  still — 
as  I could  always  get  a master  to  ‘‘  sign  me 
for  bill  ” (i.  e.,  to  excuse  my  attendance  at 
the  four  o’clock  calling-over  of  the  school- 
list),  I loved  to  wander  far  afield,  to  Pinner, 
and  Oxhey,  and  Sudbury,  and  Wembley,  to 
Stanmore  and  Elstree,  in  search  of  flowers 
and  ferns,  and  butterflies,  and  solitude ; and 
oftentimes  Sylvester  Gray  would  give  up  the 
joys  of  the  courts  and  playing-fields,  where  he 
soon  became  a welcome  habitue.^  to  accom- 
pany me,  and  then  we  would  talk  of  home, 
and  of  the  past  and  the  future. 

I was  to  be  a doctor,  like  my  father  before 
me.  Sylvester  was  the  orphan  son  of  an  officer, 
who  had  been  an  old  Harrovian,  and  who  had 
fallen  for  his  queen  and  country  at  Balaclava. 
I remember  Sylvester  Gray  bursting  into  tears 
one  day  in  the  school-chapel,  as,  for  the  first 
time,  he  read  his  father’s  name  on  the  tablets 
in  the  south  aisle,  erected  in  commemoration 
of  the  Harrow  boys  who  had  fallen  in  the 


Ashes  of  the  Ftdure. 


1 


Crimea.  His  future  would  be  one  of  dignified 
ease,  and  his  mind  was  divided  between  going 
into  the  army,  on  the  one  hand,  and  being 
called  to  the  bar  and  then  spending  his  life 
travelling  about  and  seeing  the  world,  on  the 
other. 

Bright  hopes  ! Happy  future  ! Sylvester 
Gray  killed  himself  one  warm  spring  night  in 
Rome,  when  he  was  only  thirty  ; and  I alone, 
of  his  countless  friends,  have  ever  known  the 
sequence  of  events  that  led  to  this  catastro- 
phe, which  has  been  one  of  the  profoundest 
sorrows  of  my  life. 


II. 

Sylvester  Gray  and  I began  at  Harrow  a 
friendship  that  lasted  all  his  life.  He  became, 
at  school,  the  periodical  companion  of  my 
youthful  solitude,  and  took  a kind  of  half- 
timorous,  half-contemptuous  interest  in  my 
scientific  and  quasi-scientific  manias.  He 
would  sit  in  the  reclining-chair  in  my  room, 
his  hands  nervously  grasping  its  arms,  and 
watch  me  with  grave,  deep  eyes  whilst  I mixed 


i8 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


strange  chemicals  in  a glass  mortar  or  gradu- 
ated measure,  preparatory  to  the  production 
of  some  perfume  or  explosion,  destined  to 
surpass  all  previous  efforts  in  virulence  and 
destructiveness.  He  would  take  a queer, 
puzzled  pleasure  in  looking  over  my  butter- 
flies and  dried  flowers.  He  would  even 
bring  himself  to  poke  my  imprisoned  snakes, 
through  the  bars  of  their  cage,  with  a pen- 
holder; and,  as  a result,  I confess  that,  over 
and  above  my  personal  adoration  of  him, 

I was  flattered  by  his  interest  in  my  pursuits, 
for  he  was  popular  and  a swell  ” in  the 
school,  whilst  I was  distinctly  the  reverse. 
After  school  hours  it  was,  as  I have  said,  far 
more  delightful  for  me  to  hide  myself  in  the“ 
Vaughan  library,  or  in  my  own  room,  to 
explore  the  mysteries  of  Rees’  Encyclopaedia, 
or  to  concoct  the  experiments  aforesaid, 
than  to  mix  with  my  fellow-creatures;  and 
this  kind  of  thing  does  not  tend  to  increase 
a fellow’s  popularity,  even  if  he  is  a member 
of  the  Upper  School,  ready  to  give  cons” 
(Anglice:  translations)  to  indolent  athletes  of 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


^9 


the  Shells  and  Fourth  Form;  and  such  ap- 
preciation of  my  schoolfellows  as  I enjoyed 
at  Harrow  was  due  practically  in  its  entirety 
to  the  efforts  of  Sylvester. 

He  would  carry  about  in  his  pockets,  and 
exhibit,  the  successful  results  of  my  more 
showy  experiments ; he  would  appeal  to  me 
as  to  an  authority  on  matters  recondite  and 
abstruse,  and  would  ask  my  advice  on  any  mat- 
ters deeper  than  the  ordinary  problems  of  a 
schoolboy^s  existence,  that  might  arise  in  con- 
versation with  ‘‘  his  set  and  in  this  way  I 
became  an  object  of  a certain  respect,  and 
went  through  life  rejoicing  in  the  nickname 
of  Professor.’'  I was  naturally  impressed 
with  a kind  of  gratitude — the  gratitude  of  the 
physically  superior  beast,”  for  the  fragile  but 
more  popular  “ beauty,”  and  I did  my  best 
to  share  such  joys  as  life  possessed . for  me 
with  young  Gray,  whom  I was  inclined  to 
envy  and  admire  in  a public,  and  patronize 
in  a private,  capacity. 

I have  said  that  I was  more  popular  with 
the  masters  than  with  the  fellows.  I had  al- 


20 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


so  many  acquaintances  among  the  residents 
of  Harrow,  whom  I had  met  at  the  masters’ 
houses,  and  none  were  greater  friends  ot 
mine  than  the  Woosters.  In  my  first  conver- 
sation with  Mrs.  Wooster  I found  that  we 
were  in  some  abstruse  way  connected  with 
one  another ; and  whether  it  was  that  I adored 
Mrs.  Wooster,  or  whether  it  was  that  I loved 
to  sit  and  talk  to  her  golden-haired  daughter 
Evelyn,  I used  to  look  forward  with  the  live- 
liest anticipation  to  tea-time  on  Thursdays, 
when,  as  a regular  thing,  I used  to  find  my 
way  to  their  pretty  little  house,  which  looked 
out  over  the  southern  slope  of  the  hill  towards 
Edgware  and  London. 

I made  their  acquaintance  during  my  second 
term  at  Harrow,  and  never  knew  till  many 
years  afterwards  why,  after  my  last  term  at 
school,  our  friendship  cooled  oft,  and  practi- 
cally ceased.  It  is  a terrible  story,  I am  afraid, 
but  it  is  very  necessary  to  the  development  of 
this  narrative  that  I should  sketch  in  the  main 
outlines,  which  outlines  it  is  equally  necessary 
that  I should  leave  my  readers  to  fill  in. 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


21 


When  first  I knew  her,  Evelyn  Wooster 
was  a blue-eyed  child  of  fourteen,  rather  old 
for  her  age,  as  only-children  are  apt  to  be, 
with  a glory  of  sunny  hair  that  fell  in  a tan- 
gled mass  far  below  her  waist ; and  I sup- 
pose she  holds  in  my  life  the  elevated  posi- 
tion of  my  first  love.  That  she  should  care 
about  me  was,  I knew,  a ridiculous  idea ; but 
the  joy  of  finding  a white  example  of  the  frit- 
illaria  meleagris  in  a field  near  Pinner,  and 
the  delight  of  catching  a humming-bird  hawk- 
moth  on  the  terrace  behind  the  Chapel  and 
the  Vaughan,  were  increased  a thousand-fold 
by  her  appreciation  of  my  trouvailles.^  and  by 
her  borrowing  them  for  a week  to  show  to 
her  ‘^greatest  girl-friend”  (how  my  heart  leapt 
at  that  qualification,  girl-friend  ”),  and  by 
her  repeated  subsequent  allusions  to  these 
feats  of  prowess  in  the  collecting  line.  But  I 
never  felt  so  proud  of  any  specimen  that  I 
had  submitted  to  her  for  inspection  and  ap- 
proval as  I did  of  Sylvester  Gray,  whom  I 
took  up  there  to  tea  one  sunny  afternoon  of 
his  first  term  at  Harrow. 


22 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


He  cut  me  out  completely.  When  it  was 
a question  of  what  has  been  justly  called  the 
softer,  and  unjustly  the  weaker,  sex,  he  always 
cut  everybody  out.  But  I did  not  mind;  I 
never  thought  anything  could  be  too  good 
for  either  him  or  her,  and  I gave  them  to  one 
another  without  a murmur,  and  was  quite 
content  to  sit  and  talk  to  Mrs.  Wooster,  or 
help  her  to  tend  her  flowers,  whilst  Sylvester 
and  Evelyn  sat  together  and  talked  on  the 
verandah  that  ran  round  the  house,  or,  in 
winter,  at  the  piano  in  their  cosy  little  drawing- 
room. 

And  so  the  best  part  of  five  years  crept  by. 
It  was  our  last  term  at  Harrow.  We  were 
both  in  the  Sixth  Form,  and  I was  a monitor. 
Sylvester  wasn’t,  but  he  was  in  the  Cricket 
Eleven  and  the  Shooting  Team,  and  he 
played  racquets  for  the  school,  and  helped  us 
materially  to  beat  Eton  at  Lord’s  cricket 
ground,  and  to  win  the  Ashburton  Shield  and 
the  Racquet  Cup  at  Wimbledon  and  Prince’s. 
Evelyn  Wooster  was  a lovely  young  woman 
of  eighteen,  and  she  and  Sylvester  Gray  were 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


23 


reciprocally  “ hard  hit.”  Well,  well ! he  was 
eminently  ^‘eligible,”  and  my  nineteen-year- 
old  experience  enabled  me  to  detect  a dis- 
tinct satisfaction  in  the  glances  which  Mrs. 
Wooster  occasionally  directed  at  the  hand- 
some pair,  whilst  we — she  and  I — walked 
about  the  garden  as  we  had  done  for  four 
years  past,  and  talked  horticulture  and  home. 

I ? Ah,  what  of  that  ? So  long  as  Syl- 
vester and  Evelyn  were  happy,  what  did  my 
feelings  on  the  subject  matter  ? Nothing  to 
anybody  but  myself,  did  they?  Very  well, 
then ! They  are  both  dead  now,  and  I am 
still  a miserable,  buttonless  bachelor ! 

Nearly  five  years  ! And  during  that  time 
we  had  seen  a good  deal  of  one  another — 
Sylvester,  Evelyn,  and  I.  Sylvester  had  been 
a beautiful  boy — now  he  was  a superlatively 
handsome  young  man.  A silky,  sable  mous- 
tache decorated  his  upper  lip,  and  his  whole 
bearing  was  full  of  that  graceful  strength 
which  signalizes  the  healthy,  pure-bred  gen- 
tleman. The  more  hypercritical  used  to  ob- 
ject that  his  face  was  somewhat  too  delicately 


24 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


formed;  that  it  was  too  womanish  in  the 
softness  of  its  outlines,  with  its  languorous 
violet  eyes  and  long  lashes.  To  me,  as  to 
all  men  who  were  not  envious,  he  was  always 
an  object  of  unquestioning  admiration  ; whilst 
among  women  he  was  always  a kind  of  Ad- 
mirable Crichton.  Almost  without  exception 
they  fell  in  love  with  him,  and  he  would  ac- 
cept their  homage  quite  as  though  it  were  a 
matter  of  course.  Entre  deux  amants,  il 
y a toujours  I’un  qui  baise  et  I’autre  qui  tend 
la  joue;”  and  Sylvester  was  always  the  one 
“ qui  tendait  la  joue.”  The  only  woman  I 
ever  knew  him  to  worry  himself  about  was 
Evelyn  Wooster,  and  her  he  simply  adored. 

His  friendship  for  the  Woosters  had  com- 
municated itself  to  his  sole  relations,  an  aunt 
and  a sister,  who  lived  in  a beautiful  old 
Tudor  mansion  belonging  to  Sylvester  by  in- 
heritance, near  Staplehurst,  in  the  County  of 
Kent.  During  the  summer  of  the  year  i8 — 
Mrs.  Wooster,  Evelyn,  and  I were  all  spend- 
ing a few  weeks  with  them  at  his  beautiful 
old  home  before  we  should  severally  part  to 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


25 


pursue  our  ways  along  the  different  paths 
marked  out  for  us  in  life.  Sylvester  and  I 
had  left  Harrow  a few  weeks  before,  and  on 
the  last  Thursday  before  the  school  broke 
up  we  had  met  as  usual  at  the  little  cottage 
on  tke  hill ; and,  as  it  had  been  a rather 
affecting  little  meeting,  we  had  to  get  up  our 
spirits  by  projecting  this  visit  to  Idlesse — such 
was  the  old-world  name  of  Sylvester’s  Kent- 
ish home. 

I had  been  there  more  than  once  during 
the  five  y^ars  of  our  school  days,  but  I 
thought  it  had  never  looked  so  pretty  as  it 
did  when,  at  the  close  of  a summer  afternoon, 
I drove  up  to  the  house  through  the  wind- 
ing grounds  that  hid  it  from  the  Staplehurst 
road,  and  saw  it  bathed  in  the  splendour  of 
an  August  sunset,  with  Sylvester,  in  the  most 
neglige  of  attitudes  and  costumes,  and  Evelyn, 
in  the  freshest  and  prettiest  of  frocks,  stand- 
ing in  the  porch  to  welcome  me.  Sylvester’s 
fox  terrier,  who  sat  in  front  of  them,  making 
good  practice  at  the  flies  that  investigated 
him — a grave  dog,  who  rejoiced  in  the  fas- 


26 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


cinating  name  of  Mr.  Smith  ’’ — gave  me 
one  searching  glance  to  satisfy  himself  of  my 
identity,  and  then  went  into  hysterics  over 
me  as  I sprang  from  the  dog-cart.  The  air 
was  heavy  with  the  perfume  of  the  evening 
primroses  that  grew  round  the  porch,  and 
the  Marechale  Niel  roses  that  straggled  all 
over  it ; and  as  I shook  Sylvester  and  Evelyn 
by  the  hand  I was  overwhelmed  by  a sensa- 
tion which  I could  not  understand  at  the 
time,  but  which,  looking  back  at  that  August 
evening,  I know  now  was  simply  pure  hap- 
piness. 

Then  there  followed  three  perfect  weeks 
spent  among  the  orchards  and  the  hop- 
gardens of  the  neighborhood.  The  five 
years  that  had  passed  since  my  story  had 
opened  had  not  altered  my  disposition  very 
materially,  and  I was  still  disposed  to  be 
quiet.  Besides,  I had  my  preliminary  medi- 
cal examination  to  look  forward  to ; and 
with  the  enthusiasm  that  we  all  of  us  feel, 
when  first  we  leave  school,  to  reach  as 
quickly  as  possible  the  dignity  of  a “ profes- 


Ashes  oj  the  Future. 


27 


sion,”  I had  brought  down  with  me  some 
of  my  bran-new  medical  books  to  read  up. 
They  were  not  much  read,  but  they  lay 
about  a good  deal,  and  when  one  day  Syl- 
vester’s aunt  looked  into  one  of  them  and 
nearly  frightened  herself  into  fits,  I felt  that 
the  troubles  of  transportation  were,  in  a 
measure,  compensated  for.  At  any  rate,  I 
studied  botany  with  Sybil  Gray,  Sylvester’s 
pretty  sister,  and  really  we  gathered  a lot  of 
flowers  together,  and  I dried  some  of  them — 
that  ^he  found;  but  when  I congratulated 
her,  and  indirectly  myself,  on  the  progress  of 
our  botanical  studies,  it  was  horrid  of  her  to 
ask  me  what  were  the  toxicological  proper- 
ties of  Marechale  Niel  roses,  and  what  was 
the  active  alkaloid  principle  of  the  forget-me- 
not. 

Meanwhile  Sylvester  and  Evelyn  lived  in 
a fool’s  paradise  of  their  own.  They  disap- 
peared usually  after  breakfast,  and  turned  up 
at  lunch,  with  an  appearance  of  unconscious 
virtue,  to  talk  volubly  of  plans  for  the  after- 
noon, embracing  the  entire  party.  After 


28 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


lunch  they  disappeared  again,  to  return  in 
time  to  dress  for  dinner,  looking  supremely 
foolish,  but  assuring  us  all  that  they  had  not 
been  outside  the  grounds,  and — Heaven 
forgive  them ! — that  they  had  been  looking 
for  us  everywhere.  We  used  to  laugh  at 
them — it  was  an  understood  thing” — but 
they  were  both  young  enough  in  all  con- 
science. The  future  before  them  was  as 
bright  as  it  was  long.  Sometimes  Sylvester 
would  allude  to  it  vaguely  in  the  smoking- 
room  before  we  went  to  bed.  What  aTuture 
it  would  be  ! 

Well,  well ! She  died  long  ago,  and  Syl- 
vester Gray  killed  himself  in  Rome  ten  years 
later.  Ah — yi! 


III. 

The  three  weeks  ran  by  like  a summer 
afternoon.  The  Woosters  were  to  leave  in 
two  days,  and  Evelyn  and  Sylvester  seemed 
to  forget  that  we  others  even  existed.  They 
ran  about  together,  or  walked  up  and  down 
the  terrace  arm-in-arm  nearly  all  the  time. 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


29 


The  last  but  one  was  one  of  those  frightfully 
hot  days  that  we  have  sometimes  in  England 
at  the  end  of  August.  It  had  been  sultry 
and  oppressive  since  early  morning ; the 
lovers  had  been  away  all  day,  wandering  in 
the  woods  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  had 
arrived  home  at  tea-time,  flushed,  silent,  pre- 
occupied, it  seemed  to  me.  During  the  in- 
terval before  dinner  and  during  the  meal 
they  scarcely  took  their  eyes  off  one  another, 
and  I confess  that  their  silent,  constrained 
manner  gave  me  an  undefined  sensation  of 
uneasiness,  which  I could  not  have  accounted 
for  even  to  myself 

After  dinner  we — that  is,  Sybil  and  I,  and 
Evelyn  and  Sylvester — went  out  on  to  the 
terrace,  and  wandered  up  and  down  in  the 
stifling  heat,  which  even  the  dew  had  been 
powerless  to  moderate.  At  intervals  we 
would  stop  and  stand  at  the  terrace  wall  to 
watch  the  summer  lightning  in  the  horizon — 
lightning  which  was  almost  incessant,  and 
more  vivid  than  I ever  remember  to  have 
seen  it  before  or  since.  Sybil  and  I kept  up 


30 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


a continual  chatter,  as  we  always  did ; but 
the  other  two  were  strangely  silent,  and 
would  stand  for  ten  minutes  at  a time 
against  the  wall,  looking  into  the  distance 
without  saying  a word,  their  fingers  closely 
intertwined  as  their  hands  hung  listlessly  by 
their  sides.  There  was,  after  all,  something 
peculiarly  unrefreshing  in  the  air  of  this 
summer  night,  and  presently,  Evelyn's  white 
frock  having  turned  a corner  at  the  end  ot 
the  terrace  and  disappeared  in  the  direction 
of  the  rose  garden,  Sybil  and  I turned  to 
enter  the  house.  As  we  did  so  she  turned  to 
me  suddenly,  and  said : 

‘^Jack,  I don’t  know  why,  but  I feel  so 
uneasy  about  those  two.  It’s  a dreadful 
idea  to  have,  but  you  have  been  our  best 
friend  for  so  long  that  you’re  the  only  person 
I can  talk  to  about  it.  Sylvester  is  so  im- 
pulsive and  wild-hearted,  and  Evelyn  adores 
him  so  absolutely,  that  I’m  dreadfully  fright- 
ened. Do  go  down  to  the  rosery  and  tell 
them  to  come  in  and  have  some  music.” 

She  had  noticed  it  too  ! I walked  rapidly 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


31 


down  the  gravelled  terrace,  and  turned  off  on 
to  the  soft  grass  walks  of  the  rose  garden.  I 
could  not  see  the  lovers  anywhere,  and 
started  to  walk  rapidly  round  the  beds  in 
search  of  them.  I found  them  suddenly — 
— too  suddenly — as  I turned  a corner,  be- 
neath a trellised  archway.  They  were  stand- 
ing motionless,  locked  in  one  another’s  arms. 
Her  head  lay  upon  his  shoulder,  and  she 
seemed  to  have  lost  consciousness  of  the 
whole  world  beneath  the  spell  of  his  kiss.  I 
sprang  back  and  retraced  my  steps  some 
twenty  yards,  and  then  advanced  once  more, 
whistling  to  apprise  them  of  my  approach. 
They  turned  the  corner  arm-in-arm  and  ad- 
vanced to  meet  me.  I delivered  my  mes- 
sage, and  we  regained  the  house  in  silence. 

The  ladies  retired  early,  and  as  Sylvester 
did  not  want  to  smoke,  we  went  to  our  rooms 
also.  I looked  in  on  Sylvester  on  my  way 
to  mine,  and  talked  with  him  for  a few  min- 
utes— no  longer,  for  he  evidently  did  not 
want  me  to  remain.  His  face  "was  whiter 
than  usual,  but  his  hand,  as  we  said  Good- 


32 


Ashes  of  the  F^^ture. 


night/’  was  burning  hot.  I looked  into  his 
eyes^  and  said : 

Syl,  old  fellow,  there’s  something  wrong. 
What  is  it  ?” 

Wrong!”  he  exclaimed,  wrong  ! How 
can  anything  be  wrong  with  a man  who  is 
loved  as  I am,  and  by  such  a woman  ? Why 
Jack,  old  man,  I am  so  deliriously  happy 
that  I don’t  know  what  to  do.  We  love 
one  another  so  passionately  that  it  is  almost 
more  than  we  can  bear.  Don’t  be  uneasy 
on  my  account;  if  anything  is  wrong  it  is 
a case  of  extremes  meeting,  of  my  being  so 
happy  that  I don’t  know  what  to  do  with 
myself.” 

‘‘  Sylvester,”  I cried,  “ for  God’s  sake,  take 
care!  You  are  not  going  to  marry  for  a 
couple  of  years  at  least.  Is  it  right  for 
you  two  to  be  so  much  alone  together  as  you 
have  been  ? — to  separate  yourselves  so  en- 
tirely from  the  world  as  you  do  ? Surely  not.” 

My  dear  Jack,  don’t  worry  yourself 
about  me— or  us;  we  can  take  care  of  our- 
selves. And  now — good-night !” 


Ashes  of  the  F^iiure, 


33 


And  with  that  I left  him. 

* * * # # 

What  a night  it  was ! I felt  suffocated, 
though  I had  opened  all  my  windows.  At 
last  I got  up  and  opened  my  door,  and, 
cooled  a little  by  the  draught,  fell  into  an 
uneasy  slumber.  Suddenly  I woke.  Surely 
I heard  a footstep  passing  my  open  door — a 
stealthy,  gliding  footstep,  like  that  of  a rob- 
ber ; and  the  idea  of  burglars  instantly  oc- 
curred to  my  city-bred  mind,  as  I thought  of 
the  massive  Queen  Anne  plate  which  lay 
about  on  the  sideboard  in  the  dining-room, 
day  and  night.  I lay  still  for  a few  moments, 
and  then  quietly  rising  and  putting  on  a 
dressing-gown,  felt  my  way  down  the  cor- 
ridor to  Sylvester’s  room.  The  moon  had 
hidden  herself  behind  a cloud,  and  it  was 
pitch  dark.  As  I crept  along,  the  clock  in 
the  hall  struck  half  past  two ; I turned  the 
handle  of  Sylvester’s  door,  and  went  in. 

He  was  out  of  bed,  standing  at  the  win- 
dow, also  in  a dressing-gown.  He  turned 
upon  me  and  said,  in  a voice  which  seemed 


34 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


to  me  to  be  choking  with  suppressed  fury : 
‘‘  In  God’s  name,  what  are  you  prowling 
about  the  place  for  ?” 

Sylvester,”  I replied,  1 heard  footsteps 
in  the  house,  and  thought  you  were  being 
robbed,  and  might  not  have  been  wakened 
up.  I see  you  were,  though.  Is  everything 
all  right  ?” 

His  face  was  in  the  shadow,  but  his  voice 
was  natural  again  as  he  replied, 

‘‘Yes,  yes,  all  right!  I heard  footsteps 
myself,  or  fancied  I did,  and  went  out  to 
investigate.  I found  everything  safe;  if  I 
hadn’t  I should  have  come  to  rouse  you.  It 
was  probably  me  that  you  heard  coming 
back  to  my  room.” 

Undoubtedly  that  was  it.  I regained  my 
room  and  went  back  to  bed  to  fall  into  a 
feverish,  confused  sleep,  in  which  I dreamed 
a ghastly  dream,  wherein  Sylvester  and 
Evelyn  were  engaged  struggling  with  a 
loathsome  monster,  which  crushed  her  in  its 
iron  jaws,  despite  the  efforts  of  Sylvester  to 
save  her,  whilst  I was  paralyzed  a few 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


35 


paces  off,  powerless  to  raise  a finger  in  his 
assistance.  When  I awoke  it  was  broad  day- 
light. 

# # * * * 

Evelyn  did  not  come  down  to  breakfast. 
Mrs.  Wooster  said  that  her  daughter  had 
passed  a bad  night  and  was  feverish ; the 
frightful  heat  of  the  day  before  had  been  too 
much  for  her.  Sylvester  was  in  despair;  it 
seemed  so  hard  that  she  should  be  unwell 
her  last  day  at  Idlesse,  and  after  breakfast 
he  fidgeted  around  the  house  waiting  for  her 
to  come  down.  We  were  sitting  together 
on  the  terrace  when  she  made  her  appear- 
ance at  the  drawing-room  window,  looking 
very  pale  and  fragile  in  her  white  morning- 
wrapper.  We  rose  to  go  to  her  at  once,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  there  was  something 
singularly  subdued  in  her  manner  as  she 
answered  our  anxious  enquiries.  She  was 
still  suffering  a little ; she  had  a headache, 
and  was  generally  not  up  to  the  mark  f 
but  she  had  made  a point  of  coming  down 
for  her  last  day  in  the  country. 


36 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


I left  them  together  and  trotted  off  to  find 
Sybil  and  Mrs.  Wooster,  and  the  two  lovers 
spent  the  morning  together  as  usual.  I saw 
them  walking  up  and  down  the  terrace,  al- 
ways in  sight  of  the  house,  and  from  the  grav- 
ity with  which  they  conversed  I knew  that  the 
all-important  future  ” was  the  subject  of 
their  conversation.  Lunch  was  rather  a silent 
meal — the  last  meals  together  of  a country- 
house  party  are  always  rather  dismal  func- 
tions, I think — and  after  lunch  we  all  sat  to- 
gether on  the  grass  in  the  rose-garden,  and 
read  and  talked  quietly. 

Evelyn  had  recovered  from  her  indisposition 
entirely,  and  was  the  most  chirpy  of  us  all; 
Sylvester,  on  the  other  hand,  seemed,  as  the 
Americans  say,  all  broken  up  ” by  his  im- 
pending separation,  and  hardly  opened  his 
lips,  or  took  his  eyes  off  Evelyn’s  face.  It 
made  me  unhappy  to  see  him  suffer  so,  and 
I made  many  efforts  to  leave  them  together, 
which  Evelyn,  for  some  reason  or  other, 
quietly  frustrated. 

They  disappeared  after  dinner,  however. 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


37 


‘‘  to  say  good-bye  with  variations/^  as  Sybil 
said  laughingly.  She  and  I went  down  the 
terrace  and  sat  on  the  rustic  seat  at  the  end, 
and  were  mildly  sentimental,  when  she  gave 
me  a dreadful  fright.  I had  taken  her  hand 
in  mine,  and  was  playing  with  her  fingers, 
when  suddenly  I said  to  her  : What  fun  it 
would  be  if  you  and  I were  to  fall  as  badly 
in  love  with  one  another  as  those  two  simple 
things  walking  up  and  down  there.’^ 

She  shuddered,  and  said  in  the  most  terror- 
stricken  voice  I have  ever  heard, 

‘‘  Oh  Jack,  Jack!  Don’t  think  me  an  utter 
fool,  but  unless  I tell  somebody  I shall  die, 
I think.  I’m  so  awfully  frightened  about 
Syl  and  Eva;  they’ve  had  a quarrel  or 
something,  and  whenever  I look  at  her, 
though  she’s  just  the  same  as  she  always  was. 
I’ve  the  most  dreadful  feeling  here;”  and 
she  pressed  her  left  hand  to  her  throat.  The 
one  I held  trembled  violently. 

A kind  of  pall  seemed  to  fall  over  the 
whole  world.  An  icy  feeling  of  horror  crept 
over  me.  Heaven  only  knows  why,  for,  after 


38 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


all,  what  is  there  so  serious  about  a lover’s 
tiff?  I rose  and  said  : 

It’s  getting  chilly,  Syb  ; let’s  go  in.” 

As  we  passed  them  on  the  terrace,  they 
were  walking  silently  side-by-side.  He  was 
playing  with  his  moustache,  and  she  had  her 
eyes  fixed  on  the  gravel  in  front  of  her. 

That  night,  in  the  smoking-room,  I said  to 
Sylvester:  ‘‘  Have  you  and  Eva  had  a row  ?” 

Good  gracious,  no!  What  an  idea! 
We’re  the  best  friends  in  the  world.  I am 
awfully  sorry  they’re  leaving  to-morrow.  The 
place  will  seem  so  dull  by  comparison  for 
Aunty  and  Sybil  when  we’re  all  gone.” 

‘‘All  gone?  How  do  you  mean?  You 
are  not  going  away,  are  you  ?” 

“ Why,  haven’t  I told  you  ? ” said  he ; 
“ I’m  going  to  Bellagio  next  week,  and 
then  I shall  spend  the  winter  in  Rome,  e7i 
route^  as  it  were,  for  Constantinople  and  the 
East.  I’ve  always  wanted  to  travel,  and  I 
think  a couple  of  years  of  it  will  amuse  me.” 

“ And  then  you’ll  return  and  marry  Eva, 
I suppose.” 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


39 


I don't  know ; I hope  so.  For  God's 
sake  don't  talk  to  me  about  it,  old  man ; I 
can't  bear  it." 

The  same  feeling  of  horror  took  possession 
of  me  again,  and  we  said  little  more  before 
we  took  our  candles  and  made  our  way  up- 
stairs to  bed. 

The  Woosters  left  next  morning  by  the  ten 
o'clock  train  from  Staplehurst.  The  carriage 
which  took  them  took  my  luggage  to  the 
station,  and  in  the  cool  of  the  afternoon  Syl- 
vester and  I walked  over,  that  I might  take 
the  6.30  train  to  town.  We  talked  by  the 
way  of  indifferent  matters.  He  never  men- 
tioned the  Woosters,  and  it  was  only  when  we 
were  at  the  station,  waiting  for  the  train,  that 
he  referred  to  his  own  approaching  departure. 
The  train  was  in  sight  when  I said  to  him  : 

I can’t  see  why  you,  who  have  all  that 
can  make  life  lovely  here  in  England,  should 
go  and  bury  yourself  in  Palestine,  and  Syria, 
and  Persia." 

Can't  you  ?"  he  replied,  in  a dry,  cut 
voice ; then  I’ll  tell  you.  I am  going  away 


40 


Ashes  of  the  Fuhire. 


because  I’m  not  fit  to  remain  with  decent 
people.  I’m  a thing  so  loathsome,  so  con- 
temptible, that  I shudder  at  the  sight  of  my- 
self in  a looking-glass.  You  say  I’m  rich. 
Well,  my  money  has  been  my  curse.  Good- 
looking  ? Yes.  The  beauty  of  some  painted, 
venomous  insect,  which  an  humanitarian 
would  crush  beneath  his  heel ! Don’t  pity 
'me,  old  fellow  ; I deserve  all  my  misery ; and 
I am  miserable,  God  knows ! Good-bye, 
Jack!  When  we  meet  again  I shall  feel 
better,  I hope.” 

The  guard  whistled,  and  the  train  bore  me 
away.  Goodness  me  !”  thought  I ; “he  has 
indeed  had  a tiff  with  Eva.  Just  fancy  the 
debonnair  Sylvester  taking  anything  so  to 
heart,  and  admitting  that  he  is  in  the  wrong.” 

And  so  I reached  London,  and  Guy’s  Hos- 
pital, and  the  College  of  Surgeons,  and  my 
work ; and  my  life  became  full  of  distractions. 
But  I often  wondered  what  Sylvester  could 
have  said  to  Eva  that  had  made  such  a 
breach  between  them,  and  had  produced 
such  an  effect  upon  one  of  them  at  least. 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


41 


PART  11. 

I. 

Eleven  years  have  passed,  and  the  scene 
has  changed.  The  lives  of  the  actors  in  the 
drama,  of  which  we  have  read  the  prologue, 
have  developed  with  the  years ; people  have 
married  and  died,  and  we  two,  Sylvester 
Gray  and  I,  have  remained.  I have  been 
sufficiently  attached  to  my  profession  to  suc- 
ceed in  it,  and  John  Tompkins,  M.D.,  has 
become  one  of  the  fortunate  medicos  who 
can  afford  to  take  a well-earned  holiday  after 
ten  years  of  hard  work.  He  is  taking  it  at 
the  moment  when  his  story  reopens. 

I was  in  Rome,  and  it  was  the  spring  of 
the  year  of  grace,  18 — . In  the  autumn  of  the 
year  before,  having  returned  to  Park  Lane 
from  a medical  Congress  held  at  Vienna,  I 
was  busily  engaged  re-writing  the  concluding 
chapters  of  my  work  upon  the  Conario-hypo- 


42 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


physial  tract,  when,  one  day,  meeting  an  old 
friend  in  the  park,  I could  not  for  the  life  of 
me  remember  his  name.  An  hour  later  I 
had  to  look  in  my  address-book  for  the  direc- 
tion of  a letter  to  an  old  patient,  and  that 
evening  I fell  fast  asleep  over  my  manuscript. 
I was  a little  alarmed,  but  fought  against  my 
fears,  until  one  day,  in  the  middle  of  a lec- 
ture at  St.  Augustine's  Hospital,  I suddenly 
found  that  my  mind  was  a blank,  and  plead- 
ing illness,  had  been  obliged  to  dismiss  the 
students  and  leave  the  lecture-theatre.  Dr. 
George  Ayers,  the  principal  consulting  phy- 
sician to  the  hospital,  sent  for  me  in  the  after- 
noon, and  after  a few  questions  said  to  me  : 

“ Tompkins,  you're  overdoing  it  ; you're 
playing  the  fool  with  yourself,  and  this  hos- 
pital can't  afford  it.  If  you  belonged  to 
Guy's  or  St.  Bartholomew's  I shouldn't  have 
the  least  objection  to  your  killing  yourself,  - 
but  you're  on  my  staff,  and  I can't  allow  it. 
You  will  finish  the  notes  for  your  new  book, 
and  you  will  cart  them  off  to  Rome  with  you ; 
you  will  return  here  in  April  next,  and  be- 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


43 


tween  this  and  then  I forbid  you  officially  to 
do  any  other  work.” 

And  so,  after  a short  discussion,  it  was  de- 
cided ; and  the  end  of  November  saw  me  in- 
stalled in  the  prettiest  of  rooms  in  the  Tem- 
pietta,  at  the  top  of  the  steps  of  the  Trinita 
de  Monti.  From  my  windows  I looked 
down  upon  the  Piazza  di  Spagna  and  the 
steps  of  the  Trinita,  where  artists’  models  do 
congregate.  A little  further  on  I caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  Piazza,  and  the  Porta  del  Pop- 
olo,  with  the  Borghese  and  the  Monte  Parioli 
beyond  them,  and  beyond  that,  the  Cam- 
pagna  and  the  yellow  Tiber  stretching  to 
the  sea. 

I am  of  opinion  that  my  rooms  com- 
manded the  most  beautiful  view  in  Rome, 
and  in  this  opinion  the  majority  of  my  ac- 
quaintances, who  climbed  the  Via  Sistina  to 
call  upon  me,  cordially  agreed. 

So  much  for  myself.  What  about  the 
others  ? Sylvester  Gray  seemed  absolutely 
to  have  disappeared  out  of  my  life.  I heard 
sometimes  from  his  sister,  who  seldom  knew 


44 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


anything  definite  about  his  movements,  and 
I kept  up  a desultory  correspondence  with 
Mrs.  Wooster.  About  two  years  after  our 
last  meeting  at  Idlesse,  Evelyn,  to  our  in- 
tense astonishment,  married  a commonplace 
young  man,  a local  lawyer  of  Harrow ; and 
a year  after  died  in  childbirth.  I went  down 
to  see  her  grief- stricken  mother,  but  could 
learn  but  little  from  her.  From  the  day  that 
Evelyn  had  parted  from  Sylvester  Gray  she 
had  never  mentioned  his  name  of  her  own 
accord,  and  she  had  never  prolonged  any 
conversation  of  which  Mrs.  Wooster  made 
him  the  subject.  Her  mother  had  never 
penetrated  the  mystery  that  shrouded  their 
estrangement.  All  that  Evelyn  had  said 
was  that  they  quite  understood  one  another, 
and  that  she  had  quite  made  up  her  mind 
that  it  would  be  a grave  mistake  for  them  to 
marry  one  another.  A few  days  after  they 
had  left  Idlesse,  Sylvester  had  written  her  a 
long,  imploring  letter,  begging  her  to  recon- 
sider her  decision,  and  this  letter  Mrs.  Woos- 
ter had  only  found  after  Evelyn's  death. 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


45 


What  her  answer  had  been,  if  she  had  ever 
answered  it,  her  mother  did  not  know. 

That  was  all. 

Of  Sylvester  himself  our  news  was  scanty 
and  vague.  I heard  from  him  once,  about 
six  months  after  he  left  England.  He  wrote 
from  Constantinople,  and  sent  me  his  will  to 
take  care  of,  preparatory  to  his  departure  for 
Syria,  Palestine,  and  Persia ; and  in  the  let- 
ter that  accompanied  the  document  he  told 
me  that  he  might  not  return  for  a long, 
long  time.  From  his  bankers  I heard  that 
he  had  communicated  with  them  from  Jer- 
usalem and  from  Mecca,  and  this  was  all  we 
heard  of  him  for  five  years.  At  the  end  of 
that  time  I came  across  him  suddenly  in  the 
court-yard  of  the  Hotel  Continental  in  Paris. 

I was  sitting,  wondering  vaguely  whether 
the  indigenous  Parisian  could  find  anything 
interesting  in  the  pages  of  ‘‘ La  Vie  Parisi- 
enne,’^  when  the  quiet,  musical  voice  I knew 
so  well  said  suddenly  behind  me, 

“ Tompkins,  if  I mistake  not ! How  are 
you  ?” 


46 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


I started  to  my  feet  as  if  I had  been  elec- 
trified— to  find  the  old  Sylvester  standing  at 
my  side,  holding  out  his  hand  with  an 
amused  look  on  his  handsome  face.  It  was 
undoubtedly  the  same  old  Sylvester,  looking 
not  a day  older  than  he  had  looked  the 
afternoon  I shook  him  by  the  hand  for  the 
last  time  at  Staplehurst  station.  He  was  as 
calm  and  quiet  as  he  always  had  been,  a 
little  harder,  perhaps,  in  his  manner,  and 
tanned  to  a rich  olive  pallor  that  made  him, 
if  possible,  handsomer  than  ever ; but  beyond 
that,  absolutely  unchanged. 

He  sat  down  by  my  side  and  gave  me  a 
short  outline  of  his  doings.  He  had  spent 
the  winter  of  i8 — in  Rome,  as  he  had  in- 
tended, and  had  gone  to  Istamboul  in  the 
spring;  there  he  had  studied  the  languages 
and  customs  of  the  East,  and  had  set  out  on 
a comprehensive  tour  of  the  Orient.  He 
had  joined  a caravan,  and  in  the  guise  of  a 
renegade  ” had  performed  as  much  of  the 
Hadjj  Pilgrimage  to  Mecca  as  a renegade  is 
ever  allowed  to'perform.  He  had  wandered 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


47 


through  the  Holy  Land  to  Damascus,  and 
had  spent  rich,  lazy  months  in  the  hanging- 
gardens  of  Baghdad.  He  had  lived  the  lux- 
urious life  of  an  Eastern  Pacha,  and  had 
made  himself  familiar  with  Asia  Minor ; he 
knew  Samsoun  and  Sinope  and  Batoum  and 
Erzeroum  and  Kars  as  well  as  he  knew 
London  or  Paris  or  Rome,  and  had  he  taken 
any  interest  in  anything  so  dry  as  politics  he 
would  have  been  an  authority  on  the  Eastern 
Question. 

From  there  he  had  traversed  the  deserts 
of  Persia,  and  had  been  a familiar  figure 
in  the  streets  of  Teheran  and  Ispahan.  From 
his  button-hole  hung  a little  bunch  of  mi- 
crosopic  decorations,  among  which  I could 
distinguish  the  Annunziata,  the  San  Lazaro, 
the  Redeemer  of  Greece,  the  Medjidieh,  the 
Osmanieh,  and  the  Portrait  of  the  Shah.  In 
a word,  Sylvester  Gray  had  become  the  most 
fascinatingly  interesting  and  accomplished 
vagabond  in  Europe.  He  spoke  of  his  wan- 
derings with  the  hisouciance  of  a gypsy.  He 
looked  upon  our  meeting  as  a matter  of 


48 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


course,  though  he  had  only  arrived  in  Paris 
by  the  Orient  Express  three  days  before.  He 
had  no  plans  in  particular — he  never  had ; 
he  would  probably  remain  in  Paris  a few 
weeks  and  then  return  to  London.  He  was 
not  in  a particular  hurry  to  go  anywhere  or 
to  do  anything. 

I spoke  to  him  of  England,  and  he  looked 
bored ; of  Idlesse,  and  he  changed  the  sub- 
ject. He  had  heard  of  his  aunt’s  death,  and 
of  his  sister’s  marriage ; he  had  sent  her  from 
Smyrna  a bale  of  Oriental  curiosities  worth 
many  thousands  of  piastres;  he  had  heard 
of  Evelyn’s  marriage  and  death,  which  he 
regretted  sincerely  but  conventionally.  He 
had  but  one  object  in  life — to  amuse  himself ; 
and  his  efforts  in  that  direction  met,  appar- 
ently, with  the  completest  success ; and  I con- 
gratulated him  upon  the  attainment  of  his 
desires  and  his  freedom  from  care.  As  I did 
so,  a queer,  cynical  look  came  into  his  face, 
and  he  said,  in  his  soft,  languorous  voice  : 

‘‘  You  congratulate  me,  old  fellow  ? — envy 
me,  perhaps?  Don’t  do  it.  Don’t  do  it.  I’ve 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


49 


got  everything  a man  can  want  on  the  ma- 
terial plane ; everyone  I come  across  wishes 
he  were  me,  whilst  I ! — do  you  see  that  young 
mechanic,  standing  looking  in  on  this  court- 
yard, with  his  honest  face  and  careless  eyes  ? — 
rd  give  twenty  years  of  my  life  and  my  right 
hand  to  change  places  with  him.  Hush  ! no 
answer  required!  What  are  you  doing  to- 
night ? Dine  with  me  at  the  Cafe  Anglais, 
and  we’ll  go  to  the  Princesse  de  Cziquemine’s 
together  afterwards.  I’ll  take  you ; she  is 
one  of  my  greatest  friends.  I helped  her  to 
buy  some  embroideries  for  less  than  ten  times 
their  value  in  the  Bezesten  at  Istamboul  two 
years  ago.” 

And  so,  during  the  fortnight  that  I re- 
mained in  Paris,  I saw  a good  deal  of  Sylves- 
ter Gray,  and  had  ample  opportunities  of 
studying  the  life  he  led.  What  a life  it  was  ! 
Never  was  there  such  a butterfly  in  this 
world  ; he  was  here,  there,  and  everywhere. 
Everyone,  save  only  the  married  man,  was  in 
love  with  him ; his  approval  was  the  hall- 
mark of  excellence,  whether  it  were  stamped 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


50 

upon  a horse,  a cravat,  or  a woman.  At  re- 
ceptions he  might  always  be  found  in  the 
nookiest  nook  available,  with  the  most  beau- 
tiful woman  in  the  room ; and  the  stories  of 
Sylvester’s  affaires  and  of  his  belles  fortunes.^ 
of  his  prowess  in  the  Camp  of  Mars  and  the 
Court  of  Venus,  were,  as  the  sand  on  the  sea- 
shore, innumerable. 

“ Quel  gargon said  the  old  men.  “ Quel 
pschutt  I''  said  the  young  ones.  Quel  ad- 
orable enfant said  the  young  women.  ‘‘  Quel 
frileuxl'"^  said  the  old  ones.  “ Quel  brute. F said 
the  husbands;  but  these  last  kept  their 
opinions  to  themselves. 

‘‘  One  of  these  days,”  said  I to  him,  ‘‘  you’ll 
burn  your  fingers,  and  fall  in  love  or  get  into 
trouble.” 

“The  good  Lord  forbid!”  he  replied,  with 
holy  fervour.  “ My  mental  fingers  are  made 
of  asbestos ; I haven’t  the  capacity  to  fall  in 
love,  and  I can’t  get  into  trouble  because  my 
memory  is  good  and  I keep  my  wits  about  me. 
Vogue  la  galere  F and  he  skipped  off  to  keep 
some  assignation  or  other,  croodling  a fragment 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


51 


of  some  song  of  the  Ambassadeurs,  some 
echo  of  the  Eden  or  of  the  Folies  Bergeres. 

There  was  no  doubt  about  the  fact  that  he 
led  a gay  life  of  it.  He  was  the  veriest  Bo- 
hemian that  ever  walked  this  earth,  and  a 
Bohemian  of  the  best  sort.  He  never  drank, 
or  gambled,  or  affected  any  of  the  lower  vices 
of  the  Quartier  Latin ; and  whilst  he  was  a 
little  tin  god  on  wheels  in  the  Faubourg  and 
the  Champs  Elysees,  he  was  adored  by  hordes 
of  impecunious  artists  whom  he  mainly 
supported  by  his  purchases  of  works  of  art 
that  he  did  not  want,  and  by  other  delicate 
and  indirect  forms  of  a practically  boundless 
charity. 

My  time  was  up,  and  I returned  to  Lon- 
don. Sylvester  Gray  saw  me  off  at  the  Gare 
du  Nord,  and  we  made  an  appointment  to 
meet  again  at  my  rooms  in  Park  Street  be- 
fore the  London  season  should  have  come  to 
its  timely  end. 

II. 

Sylvester  Gray  came  to  London,  and 
his  rooms  in  Jermyn  Street,  St.  James,  were  the 


5^ 


Ashes  of  the  Fuhire. 


envy  of  half  the  men  in  town.  A man  more 
eminently  clubable  ” never  looked  out  of  a 
bay-window  in  Piccadilly ; a man  more  emi- 
nently companionable  never  walked  down 
“ the  Row  ” with  the  beauty  of  the  year 
a more  charming  conversationalist  never  suf- 
fered from  an  embarras  de  choix  among  his 
invitations  to  the  smartest  dinners  in  town, 
or  to  the  most  delightful  country-houses  in 
the  kingdom.  It  therefore  caused  me  the 
same  sort  of  feeling  of  appreciation  as  I had 
experienced  when  he  took  me  up  ” at  Har- 
row, to  know  that,  with  a fortnight’s  previous 
notice,  I could  always  count  upon  him  to 
dine  with  me,  either  tete-a-tete  or  otherwise. 

He  took  an  intense  interest  in  a little  book 
I was  preparing  at  the  time,  a “ Practical 
Handbook  of  the  Vegetable  Poisons  ” ; and 
his  intimate  knowledge  of  Oriental  toxicology 
was  often  of  the  greatest  service  to  me  in 
making  my  notes  and  experiments  upon  the 
lesser  known  Oriental  alkaloids.  His  love 
for  abstruse  information  of  this  kind,  and  his 
store  thereof,  were  infinite  and  extraordinary. 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


53 


He  had  brought  with  him  from  the  East  a 
collection  of  drugs  and  plants  that  he  had 
made  over  there  with  a view  to  giving  them 
to  me ; and  their  value,  with  his  notes  upon 
them,  was,  to  me,  inestimable ; and  he  often 
startled  me  with  the  Borgia-like  7ionchalance 
with  which  he  would  discuss  the  effects  of, 
and  experiment  on  himself  with,  the  most 
deadly  drugs. 

He  would  sit  with  me  far  into  the  early 
hours  of  the  morning,  working  with  me  at 
my  manuscripts  and  my  analyses ; and  the 
Medical  Times,^  in  subsequently  reviewing  my 
book,  remarked  that  “ Dr.  Tompkins’s  data 
upon  Asiatic  drugs  are  the  most  minute  and 
valuable  to  be  found  in  medical  literature.” 
But  he  never  referred  to  the  past.  It -was 
only  after  our  companionship  had  lasted  thus 
for  a couple  of  years  that  one  day,  our  con- 
versation having  turned  upon  conscience  and 
remorse  and  so  on,  he  startled  me  again  by 
suddenly  saying : 

‘‘  I tell  you,  Jack,  now,  as  I told  you  when 
we  first  met  in  Paris,  I hardly  ever  see  an 


54 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


artizan  or  a careless  clerk  strolling  in  the 
park  on  Sunday  but  I envy  him  with  my 
whole  soul.  You  are  quite  right  when  you 
say  that  nobody  knows  anything  about  my 
past  life,  either  in  England  or  abroad.  Well, 
old  man.  I’ll  tell  you  this.  There  is  some- 
thing in  my  life  so  horrible  to  remember,  that 
it  clouds  my  enjoyment  of  every  moment  of 
my  existence.  I can't  tell  you  what  it  is,  but  it 
closes  the  doors  of  happiness  upon  me,  and  I 
can  never  hope  to  offer  a thing  so  vile  as  my- 
self to  any  woman  who  may  honor  me  with 
her  love.  No  matter  where  the  events  to 
which  I refer  took  place,  whether  here  or 
abroad,  whether  in  the  east  or  in  the  west ! 
They  hang  like  a pall  over  my  whole  exist- 
ence , and  not  only  do  they  prevent  my  al- 
lowing myself  to  lay  my  worship  at  the  feet 
of  a pure  woman,  not  only  do  they  condemn 
me  to  fritter  away  the  sterling  coinage  of 
my  love  in  the  small  change  of  flirtation,  as 
somebody  says  in  a play  somewhere,  but 
my  past  horror  has  actually  rendered  me  in- 
capable of  lovirg.  I shudder  at  the  very 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


55 


thought  of  a deep  passion ; my  heart  is  dry 
and  sterile,  and  no  woman  may  ever  quicken 
it  into  life  by  the  magic  of  her  touch. 

But,  my  dear  Syl,  this  is  dreadful.  I 
guessed  that  there  might  be  something  of 
this  sort  on  your  mind ; now  I am  a medical 
man,  and  though  a young  one,  I am  admitted 
to  have  had  some  experience  with  mental 
troubles — can’t  you  bring  yourself  to  tell  any 
one  about  it  ? Surely  it  would  ease  your  mind.” 

No,”  he  replied,  it  is  at  the  same  time 
my  curse  and  my  safeguard.  If  ever,  by  any 
horrible  chance,  I should  fall  really  in  love,  I 
should  lay  my  past  bare  before  the  woman  I 
cared  about,  to  prevent  her,  if  possible,  from 
loving  me;  at  any  rate  to  show  her  the  real 
Sylvester  Gray  that  lies  hidden  under  an  ex- 
terior which,  fortunately,  is  not  disagreeable 
to  people.” 

I thought  over  the  matter  for  some  time  in 
silence,  and  when  next  I spoke  it  was  to 
deliver  to  him  what,  in  after  times,  he  always 
would  laughingly  refer  to  as  my  celebrated 
oration 


56 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


On  the  Advantages  of  Confessional 
Familiarity  f 

I believe  that  the  name  of  the  philoso- 
pher who  first  formulated  the  axiom  that 
‘ Familiarity  breeds  contempt’  is  lost  in  the 
roll-call  of  the  crowd  that  populates  the  Wal- 
halla  of  forgotten  dogmatists  and  proverb- 
makers. 

“ When  we  were  boys  at  Harrow  together, 
you  remember  that  there  was  a dear  old  gen- 
tleman, one  of  the  masters  of  the  fourth 
form — he  is  dead  long  ago,  God  rest  his 
soul! — who  used  quaintly  to  observe,  when 
there  occurred  in  the  day’s  portion  of  Homer 
or  Virgil  a passage  of  which  the  meaning 
was  obscure  to  a depth  beyond  the  reach 
of  even  his  profound  scholarship,  ‘ Never 
mind,  laddie  ; if  I ever  meet  the  author  in  the 
future  life,  I’ll  ask  him  what  he  meant;  never 
mind  about  it  now.’  I have  always  felt 
much  the  same  with  regard  to  this  unknown 
proverbial  philosopher.  What  did  he  mean  ? 
Did  he  mean  that  to  be  familiar  with  a sub- 
ject or  object,  whether  on  the  physical  or  on 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


57 


the  mental  plane,  leads  one  to  despise  it  ? 
Undoubtedly  he  did — we  may  start  by  ad- 
mitting thus  much.  But  I would  have  him 
tell  me  the  nature  of  this  despite  upon  which 
he  spoke  so  oracularly. 

Was  it  the  despite  that  the  gladiator  in 
the  coliseum  felt  for  the  pampered,  plethoric 
potentate  who  sat  above  him  on  his  chrys- 
elephantine throne,  surrounded  by  his  syco- 
phants and  concubines,  to  laugh  when  the 
blood  flowed  from  the  wounds  torn  in  his 
quivering  flesh  by  the  savage  beasts  trained 
to  rend  him  for  the  amusement  of  a Roman 
emperor  ? Or  was  it  the  despite  he  felt  for 
the  brute  that  had  wounded  him,  when  it 
lay  writhing  in  its  death  agony  at  his  feet, 
ploughing  up  the  gold  dust  and  cinnabar  of 
the  arena,  whilst  the  sweating,  brutal  mob 
upon  the  benches  rent  the  air  with  their 
shrieks  of  ^ Habet ! Habet  Was  it  the 
contempt  that  the  circus  gymnast  feels  for 
the  danger  that  he  courts  for  a livelihood, 
or  that  which  he  feels  for  himself  as  he 
prostitutes  his  manhood  in  making  an  exhibi- 


58 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


tion  of  its  power  ? On  what  plane  must  we 
seek  the  sentiment  that  the  dogmatist  wished 
to  express  ? Who  can  tell  ? Shall  we  not 
rest  content  in  accepting  the  proverb  as  it 
stands,  and  let  each  take  from  it  for  himself 
the  meaning  that  suggests  itself  to  him,  and 
then,  when  we  have  interpreted  it  for  our- 
selves metaphysically,  or  rather  (if  I may 
be  allowed  the  polysyllable)  met-egotistico- 
physically,  and  we  ask  ourselves  what  it  all 
comes  to,  we  have  only  to  repeat,  but  to 
repeat  with  an  inflection  of  voice  which 
conveys  its  significance  only  to  ourselves, 

^ Familiarity  breeds  contempt ! ’ 

“ By  this  time  you  will  be  wondering  what 
I am  leading  up  to.  My  own  interpretation 
of  the  axiom,  of  course ; but  what  is  that  ? 
Do  not  say  my  ^ interpretation^  say,  rather, 
my  ^application'  thereof;  and  that  is  as  follows 
— if  you  will  allow  me  an  illustration,  instead 
of  the  more  difficult  ‘ definition.' 

“ I am  a person  who  never  confides  in 
anybody.  I presume  that  this  is  the  reason 
why  people  continually  confide  in  me.  Withr 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


59 


out  this  tendency,  however,  on  the  part  of 
my  fellow-men,  there  is  no  doubt  that  I 
should  never  have  arrived  at  my  application 
of  our  axiom,  and  I arrived  at  it  as  follows : 

Can  anything  be  more  terrible  than  re- 
morse, if  the  remorse  is  genuine  ? Some- 
times we  know  it  to  be  purely  theatrical,  and 
then  it  excites  contempt  rather  than  sym- 
pathy ; but  when  it  is  real.^  those  who  have 

seen  it  are  not  likely  soon  to  forget  the 
% 

impression  that  it  made  upon  them.  I have 
seen  it — once.  And  its  victim  was  a woman. 

She  was  the  whole  world  to  a friend  of 
mine;  he  had  no  thought  that  was  not  hers 
alone ; the  air  was  purer  for  him  because  she 
breathed  it,  the  sun  was  brighter  for  him 
because  it  shone  upon  her — in  a word  he 
loved  her  with  that  absolute  all-absorbing 
worship  that  comes  to  some  men  once,  and 
to  most  men  never.  I had  seen  a good  deal 
of  the  girl  from  her  childhood,  and  she  did 
me  the  honor  of  creating  me  her  chief  con- 
fidant. When,  therefore,  I realized  that  she 
was,  for  some  inexplicable  reason,  making 


6o 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


herself  and  the  man  to  whom  I have  alluded 
as  my  friend,  miserable  beyond  all  reasonable 
limits,  by  her  steadfast  refusal  to  listen  to  his 
supplications  on  his  own  behalf,  I took  it 
upon  myself  to  ask  her  why  she  pursued  this 
course  with  such  unbending  relentlessness. 
She  answered  me  that  she  loved  the  man  from 
the  bottom  of  her  soul,  but  that  her  whole 
life  was  stained  by  a past  history  so  black 
that  she  would  account  herself  a vile  gift  to 
be  laid  at  the  feet  of  the  man  that  she  held 
to  be  the  king  among  human  beings. 

Now,  if  a counterbalancing  axiom  were 
required  to  go  with  the  proverb  we  have  been 
discussing,  we  might  take  for  it,  ‘ Confession 
eases  the  soul.’  That  the  two  accompany,  and 
are  inseparable  from  one  another,  I propose  at 
this  present  to  show ; and  it  was  following  the 
line  of  argument  that  I am  now  laying  down 
that  I asked  my  girl-friend  to  follow  her  es- 
tablished precedent  and  ‘tell  me  all  about 
it’ 

“‘No,’  said  she,  ‘the  crime,  the  horror 
which  overshadows  my  life  is  too  ghastly. 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


6i 


too  terrible  for  me  to  be  able  to  whisper  a 
word  of  it  to  a living  soul.’ 

Now,  this  was  absurd;  or  at  any  rate 
there  was  a strong  presumption  that  it  was 
absurd.  I would  not  for  one  moment  admit 
the  possibility  of  the  literal,  actual  truth  of 
her  statement  in  her  own  case — she,  a girl  of 
nineteen,  the  carefully  nurtured  and  only 
daughter  of  one  of  the  noblest  families  in 
England  ! Therefore,  there  were  two  ex- 
planations for  this  statement  of  hers,  which 
was  made  in  all  good  faith,  with  pale  face, 
wide-stricken  eyes,  and  white  lips,  which 
gave  testimony  to  the  genuineness  of  her 
words,  from  her  own  mental  standpoint  at 
any  rate. 

In  the  first  place,  let  us  admit — let  us 
suppose,  for  the  sake  of  argument, — that 
there  had  been  in  her  life  some  boy-and-girl 
‘ affair  ’ ; let  us  suppose  it  had  terminated  in 
a manner  which  to  a highly-strung,  sensitive 
girl  had  seemed  highly  tragic,  whereas  it  had 
probably  ended  after  a fashion  merely  mod- 
erately dramatic.  Supposing,  I say,  for  the 


62 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


sake  of  argument,  this  to  have  been  the  case, 
we  have  to  allow  for  natural  exaggeration. 
The  Turks  have  a proverb  to  the  effect  that 
‘ A little  hill  in  a low  place  fancies  itself  a 
mountain  ’ ; it  is  a saying  which,  like  much  of 
the  Turkish  proverbial  philosophy,  is  founded 
on  a keen  appreciation  of  human  nature,  and 
it  probably  explains  my  young  friend’s  mag- 
nified opinion  on  the  subject  of  her  Past 
(with  a capital  ^ P’).  It  reminds  one  of  the 
gigantic  helmet  that  creates  such  an  excite- 
ment in  Dryden’s  ‘ Battle  of  the  Books,’  in 
the  remotest  corner  of  which,  on  calm  exam- 
ination, there  turns  out  to  be  concealed  an 
atrophied  head  no  bigger  than  a walnut ! 
It  need  hardly  be  said  that  I did  not  suggest 
these  ideas  to  her  by  way  of  an  invitation  of 
confidence. 

Again,  we  have  to  consider  the  element 
of  hysteria  ; and  here  we  tread  on  the  most 
delicate  ground  in  dealing  with  an  impression- 
able girl  of  nineteen ! Excepting  to  the 
severely  pathological  mind,  there  is  something 
intensely  insulting  about  the  idea  of  events 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


63 


which  have  profoundly  impressed  us,  never 
having  happened  at  all ! Once,  when  I was 
very  much  younger,  I was  nearly  garrotted  on 
Chelsea  Embankment,  opposite  Cheyne  Walk, 
on  my  return  from  an  evening  at  Carlyle’s. 
I escaped  with  difficulty,  and  only  by  means 
of  the  prompt  use  of  a weapon  which  I habit- 
ually carry.  A few  weeks  later,  at  a dinner- 
party in  the  same  neighborhood,  a medical 
man  was  expatiating  on  the  absurdity  of 
stigmatizing  the  Thames  Embankment  after 
nightfall  as  ‘ dangerous,’  and  by  way  of 
counter-argument  I cited  my  own  experience 
with  the  Chelsea  desperado.  The  doctor 
looked  across  the  table  and  remarked,  ‘ I 
hope  you  will  not  misunderstand  me  if  I say 
that  I don’t  believe  that  the  incident  you 
relate  ever  happened.  Your  studies  in  psy- 
chology, my  dear  Mr.  Tompkins,  show  you  to 
be  endowed  with  a vivid,  analytical  imagina- 
tion. Now,  I think — as  a medical  man — that 
this  experience  of  yours  exists  only  in  that 
imagination,  and  its  reality  to  yourself  results 
from  an  hysterical  tendency  to  which  I should 


64 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


think  you  were,  like  most  analytical  psy- 
chologists, singularly  subject . It  is  on  the  same 
principle  that  half-a-dozen  innocent  persons 
surrender  themselves  to  justice  as  the  per- 
petrators of  every  murder  whose  real  author 
remains  undiscovered/ 

I am  free  to  confess  that  I felt  extremely 
annoyed ; and  the  remembrance  of  that  an- 
noyance was  sufficiently  strong  to  prevent 
my  suggesting  the  same  explanation  of  her 
Past  (with  a capital  ‘ P ’)  to  the  young  per- 
son whose  case  I am  discussing. 

I therefore  urged  her  to  confide  to  me 
the  story  which  blackened  her  soul  in  her 
own  estimation  with  such  a Cimmerian  sable 
— on  the  unexpressed  principle  that,  firstly  : 
Confession  eases  the  soul;  and  secondly: 
Familiarity  (brought  about  by  such  con- 
fession) breeds  contempt — contempt  for  the 
circumstances  which  it  is  advisable  to  forget ; 
for  we  can  never  forget  anything  for  which 
we  do  not  feel  that  unexpressed  contempt 
which  prevents  our  taking  the  trouble  to  im- 
press it  on  our  memories.  And  this  is  the 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


65 


despite  which  the  gladiator  feels  for  the  dying 
animal  at  his  feet,  a despite  born  of  an  appre- 
ciation of  our  own  physical  or  mental  super- 
iority over  the  circumstances  which,  before 
we  encountered  and  conquered  them,  in- 
spired us  with  an  uneasy  apprehension,  if  not 
with  a positive  alarm. 

We  have  now  arrived  back  once  more  at 
the  point  whence  we  originally  started,  and 
are  in  a position  to  ‘ start  fresh,’  as  it  were, 
with  the  continuation  of  the  same  story. 

‘‘The  young  person,  whose  name  I have 
omitted  to  mention,  having  therefore  refused 
absolutely  to  share  her  trouble  with  me  by 
way  of  confession,  I changed  the  subject  of 
conversation,  and  presently  left  her.  I took 
counsel  on  her  case  from  the  ever-ready-to- 
advise  pages  of  the  Emperor  Marcus  Aurelius 
Antoninus  and  from  the  herb  nicotian,  and 
as  a result  wrote  her  that  evening  the  follow- 
ing letter : 

“ I asked  you  to-day  to  tell  me  of  your  trouble  ; 
1 asked  you  to  confide  to  my  ear  the  story  which, 
blackening  your  whole  life  which  is  past,  stands. 


66 


Ash^s  of  the  Future. 


as  you  say,  an  insurmountable  barrier  in  the 
way  of  your  happiness  in  the  future.  You  re- 
fused, and  no  doubt  your  reasons  for  doing  so 
were  just ; but  my  reasons  for  inviting  your 
confidence  were  none  the  less  cogent,  and  it  is 
because  I wish  to  suggest  to  you  a substitute  for 
that  confidence  that  I write  to  you  now.  I said 
to  you,  in  inviting  the  recital,  that  ‘ Confession 
eases  the  soul.^  I should  rather  have  said, 
^Familiarity  breeds  contempt.’  In  your  case 
the  two  proverbs  have  the  same  significance  and 
application.  I suggest — and  I trust  that  you 
will  act  upon  my  suggestion — that  you  should 
write  out  your  story — your  confession — call  it 
what  you  will,  for  your  own  eyes  alone : that 
you  should,  in  this  written  narrative,  pay  the 
closest  attention  to  the  minute  details  of  your 
case,  and  that  you  should  give  as  much  literary 
completeness  thereto  as  possible ; that  you 
should  endeavor  to  make  your  story  a model  of 
literary  ‘form;’  in  a phrase,  that  it  should 
be  complete  as  a ‘word-picture,’  as  a faithful 
verbal  representation  of  your  Past.  Nothing 
extenuate,  nothing  hide  ; if  any  points  of  your 
relation  redound  to  your  discredit,  if  any  of  its 
circumstances  put  you  to  shame,  elaborate  them 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


67 


to  the  fullest  point.  My  object  in  advising 
this  course  is  as  follows:  ‘Familiarity  breeds 
contempt;’  conversely  ‘Mystery  inspires  re- 
spect;’ the  unknown  is  always  alarming;  but 
the  most  awful  thoughts,  stated  in  bald  English, 
lose  half  their  terror.  So  long  as  you  brood 
upon  the  events  of  your  Past  they  will  hold  you 
with  a morbid,  unspeakable  interest.  You  will 
be  a problem  to  yourself,  and  you  will  be  contin- 
ually picturing  to  yourself  the  supreme  moment 
when,  to  some  chosen  individual,  you  will  lay 
bare,  willingly  or  unwillingly  (either  mode  is 
equally  dramatic),  this  cherished  secret  of  your 
soul. 

“ But  follow  my  advice.  Degrade  your  Past 
from  its  altitude  as  a great  dramatico-psycho- 
logical  study  to  the  level  of  an  ordinary  word- 
picture,  a vulgar  romance,  a novelette  in  fact. 
You  will  then  find  yourself  in  a position  to 
criticise  it  from  the  ordinary  artistic  point  of 
view ; you  will  find  yourself  noting  inartistic 
touches  in  the  relation ; you  will  find  places 
where  your  esprit  de  Vescalier  will  suggest  that 
you  might  have  adopted  a course  far  superior  to 
the  one  you  actually  did  adopt ; in  fact  you  will 
find  that  your  drama  was  in  many  respects  con- 


68 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


temptible.  In  a word,  in  familiarizing  yourself 
with  this  story  of  yours,  which,  as  it  stands  at 
present,  is  panoplied  in  the  dim  magnificence 
of  the  unexpressed,  you  will  awaken  in  your 
mind  a certain  contempt  for  the  picture  you  are 
criticising;  and  when  once  we  become  critical, 
illusion  is  necessarily  at  an  end.  Such  is  man  : 
so  long  as  he  admires  from  a distance  he  is 
awed;  the  moment  he  touches  he  is  in  a position 
to  insult.  The  beneficial  effect  of  this  course 
in  your  own  case  hardly  needs,  I think,  to  be 
pointed  out.  Your  own  history,  viewed  and 
criticised  merely  as  a work  of  art,  will  lose  its 
importance,  its  horrors,  for  you ; and  when  this 
end  has  been  attained,  the  remaining  gradient 
— the  one  which  leads  to  peace  of  mind — will  be 
easily  climbed,  and  you  will  reach  the  broad 
table-land  of  contentment,  where  your  life  may 
once  more  run  smoothly  and  in  quiet  places.” 

I ceased  there.  I do  not  know  whether 
she  took  my  advice  or  no.  From  the  fact 
that  she  never  referred  to  my  letter  I con- 
cluded that  she  did ; at  least  she  subsequently 
married  the  friend  in  whose  behalf  I had 
pleaded. 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


69 


Than  the  illustration  which  I have  intro- 
duced by  the  above  story,  I hardly  think  that 
I can  give  a more  complete  exposition  of  my 
meaning  in  coupling  together  the  two  pro- 
verbs which  stand  as  the  text  of  my  sermon. 
What  I have  endeavoured  to  emphasize  is  the 
psychological  fact  that,  to  express  a thought 
familiarizes  it,  and  that  to  familiarize  ourselves 
with  a subject  which  has  had  any  terrors  for 
us,  inspires  us  with  a contempt  for  those  ter- 
rors. Therefore,  though  I should  be  very 
loath  to  have  it  quoted  as  my  advice  that 
people  should  confide  in  one  another  the 
darker  chapters  of  their  life’s  histories,  still,  if 
such  gloomy  periods  of  life  stand  out  with 
undue  prominence  in  the  scheme  of  one’s  ex- 
istence, and  throw  into  shadow  the  brighter 
passages,  why,  then  I say  that  to  state  the 
case  pictorially  robs  it  of  half  its  solemnity, 
that  familiarity  with  the  subject  breeds  in  us 
a contempt  for  it,  and  that,  in  this  manner, 
confession — even  though  it  be  made  only  to 
yourself — eases  the  soul.” 

I ceased,  rather  astonished  at  my  own 


70 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


volubility  and  earnestness.  Sylvester  was 
lying  in  the  position  he  had  taken  up  on 
my  sofa  when  I began,  and  I was  relieved  to 
observe  by  the  regularity  with  which  the 
smoke  from  his  cigar  rose  into  the  air  that 
he  had  not  gone  to  sleep.  When  he  found 
that  I had  really  stopped  haranguing  him, 
he  looked  up  at  me  and  said  seriously  : 

Do  you  know,  old  man,  you’ve  quite 
astonished  me;  I didn’t  think  you  were 
such  a philosopher.  I’ll  say  this  for  your 
sermon,  that  I quite  understand  and  appre- 
ciate your  point ; but  I can’t  take  your 
advice.  My  horror  of  myself  for  what  is 
past  is  due  to  neither  exaggeration  nor 
imagination.  Thank  God,  I have  sufficient 
control  over  my  mind  to  prevent  myself 
brooding  over  my  story  ; but  I verily  believe 
that,  if  I were  to  concentrate  my  mind  upon 
it  as  you  suggest,  and  go  over  it  all  again 
minutely,  I should  go  mad!  No,  no.  Jack; 
let  It  lie,  let  it  lie.  I don’t  suppose  for  a 
moment  that  the  occasion  will  ever  arise  for 
me  to  say  anything  to  anybody  about  it. 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


71 


Let  it  die  with  me  when  I die,  old  man. 
Believe  me  that,  in  this  case,  no  amount  of 
familiarity  could  ever  breed  contempt,  and 
no  amount  of  confession  could  ever  ease  the 
soul.  Now  leBs  change  the  subject.” 

We  did  so,  and  I never  broached  the 
matter  to  him  again. 

III. 

When  first,  on  looking  from  my  window  in 
Rome,  this  year,  I saw  the  trees  on  the  Monte 
Pincio  bursting  into  leaf,  and  the  landscape 
beyond  taking  a shade  of  green  where  before 
all  had  been  gray  and  black,  I shut  up  my 
books,  and,  rolling  up  my  proof-slips,  went 
out  into  the  warm  spring  afternoon  for  my 
first  drive  of  the  year  in  the  Borghese.  I 
found  that  this  happy  thought  of  mine  was 
hardly  unique ; the  allees^  tho’  not  by  any 
means  crowded,  were  very  fairly  lined  with 
carriages ; and  I had  not  been  in  the  gardens 
long,  before  the  startling  crimson  of  the 
Royal  liveries,  seen  in  the  distance,  warned 
me  to  be  ready  to  uncover  to  the  beautiful 


72 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


Queen  Margherita,  and  a few  moments  later 
the  same  ceremony  had  to  be  gone  through 
for  His  Majesty  Umberto  U.  as  he  drove  his 
four-in-hand  round  the  villa  paths,  with  the 
little  Prince  of  Naples,  Vittorio  Emmanuele, 
at  his  side  on  the  box  seat.  And  I lazily 
wondered,  as  hundreds  have  done  before 
me,  how  the  king  ever  acquired  the  amazing 
art  of  holding  the  reins  of  his  team  in  one 
hand,  and  his  hat,  which  oscillated  in  inces- 
sant salutation,  in  the  other. 

Though  I had  only  been  in  Rome  a little 
over  three  months,  my  acquaintance  in  the 
Eternal  City  had  become  promiscuous  and 
extensive;  and  finding  that  almost  every  one 
I knew  was  in  the  Burghese,  I directed  the 
coachman  to  seek  the  less-frequented  allees,, 
and  the  comparatively  deserted  outskirts  of 
the  park.  I had  been  driving  in  solitary 
state  for  a few  moments,  when  suddenly  a 
victoria  met  mine  in  which  reclined  a singu- 
larly beautiful,  golden-haired  woman,  who 
was  laughing  and  chattering  gaily  with  her 
attendant  cavalier.  I looked  to  see  who  this 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


73 


favoured  individual  might  be ; it  was,  of 
course,  Sylvester  Gray,  handsome,  insougiant^ 
calm  as  ever.  He  had  been  in  Rome  three 
days,  having  arrived,  bored  with  himself  and 
everything  else,  from  the  Riviera.  He  saw 
me,  and  without  the  least  hesitation  or 
shame  hailed  me  to  stop.  I did  so,  and  he 
jumped  out  and  brought  me  to  be  presented 
to  his  companion,  who  proved  to  be  an 
American  lady,  the  wife  of  a prominent 
member  of  the  American  colony  in  Rome. 
We  chatted  and  congratulated  ourselves  for 
a few  moments,  and  then  drove  on  our  re- 
spective ways,  having  noted  our  respective 
addresses  with  a view  to  a proximate  re- 
encounter. 

After  that,  for  about  a fortnight,  I saw  a 
good  deal  of  Sylvester,  who  was  still,  at  the 
age  of  thirty,  the  same  incorrigible  butterfly 
that  he  had  always  been.  Never  a reception 
in  the  city  but  he  was  there,  never  was  a 
party  complete  without  him ; and  certainly  a 
more  delightful  companion  it  was  impossible 
to  conceive ; he  knew  everything  and  every- 


74 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


body.  From  the  Coliseum  by  way  of  the 
Capitoline  to  the  Vatican,  and  from  San 
Paolo  fuori  dei  Porti  to  the  Catacombs  of 
St.  Calixtus,  he  seemed  to  know  the  history 
of  every  stone  in  Rome ; and  so  Sylvester 
never  suffered  for  want  of  companionship. 
His  life,  aimless  as  it  was,  was  not  without 
its  charms,  an  ideal  existence  of  laissez  aller, 
as  Anthony  Trollope  used  to  say  of  his 
brother  Thomas,  ^‘a  life  of  active  indolence.” 

An  afternoon  that  shall  ever  be  marked 
with  a crimson  stone  in  the  calendar  of  my 
life  was  that  on  which  our  ambassador.  Sir 
John  Savile  Lumley,  gave  one  of  the  most 
charming  receptions  of  the  year  i8 — . I had 
picked  up  Sylvester  Gray  at  the  Hotel 
Quirinale,  where  he  had  a charming  suite  of 
rooms  “ in  perpetuity,”  and  had  strolled  up 
with  him  to  the  Embassy,  where  the  fine 
fleur  of  Roman  society,  aboriginal,  colonial, 
and  passagere^  was  assembled  under  the  trees 
on  Sir  John’s  finely-kept  lawns.  It  was  a 
lovely  afternoon,  and  Dame  Nature  was  en- 
gaged in  an  active  competition  with  her 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


75 


handmaid,  Art,  to  make  the  scene  as  bright 
and  beautiful  as  it  was  possible  for  it  to  be  ; 
and  that  is  saying  a good  deal  in  the  full 
glory  of  a Roman  spring. 

Sylvester  and  I had  been  strolling  from 
group  to  group,  and,  as  of  yore,  I had  felt  ab- 
solutely proud  of  him  as  I noted  the  smiles 
with  which  he  was  greeted  by  every  knot 
of  people  whom  he  approached.  We  had 
made  the  complete  round  of  the  garden, 
when  suddenly  we  came  face-to-face  with  a 
woman.  And  Sylvester  did  a thing  I never 
knew^him  to  do  before;  he  stopped  dead  and 
looked  at  her. 

She  was  just  stepping  out  into  the  garden, 
the  fingers  of  her  left  hand  lightly  resting  on 
the  arm  of  one  of  the  Secretaries  of  Legation. 
There  is  only  one  word  that  in  any  adequate 
manner  describes  her, — she  was  superb. 

She  was  of  medium  height,  but  the  mag- 
nificent dignity  of  her  carriage  was  such  that 
she  gave  one  the  impression  of  a tall  woman. 
Her  dress,  an  arrangement  in  black  moire 
and  beads,  hung  in  straight  lines  about  her 


76 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


supple  figure,  and  showed  all  its  perfections 
with  a fidelity  that  only  such  perfection  could 
bear  with  impunity.  Her  small,  arched  foot, 
in  its  low  slipper,  and  black  silk  stocking, 
arrested  the  eye  as  it  advanced  from  be- 
neath her  swaying  skirts  to  step  down  into 
the  garden,  for  it  seemed  ablaze  with  light  as 
the  sun  struck  the  beaded  embroidery  of  the 
slipper;  a broad  sash  of  soft,  watered  silk 
seemed,  as  it  were,  wrapped  round  her 
exquisite  waist,  and  appeared  reluctant  to 
allow  the  curves  of  her  figure  to  escape  from 
its  folds.  One  of  her  gloves,  whose  buff 
peau  de  sue'de  formed  the  one  point  of  colour 
about  her,  was  tucked  under  this  sash  with 
her  handkerchief,  and  revealed  by  its  absence 
the  beauty  of  the  wax-white  hand  that  at  the 
moment  was  raised  to  her  throat.  Her  face 
was  almost  indescribable,  but  my  first 
impression  was  of  a hard,  almost  repel- 
lent beauty,  and  of  a complexion  abso- 
lutely colorless,  of  the  most  perfect  blanc-mat 
hue.  The  jaw  was  rather  square,  and  the 
mouth  (accentuated  perhaps — but  of  this  a 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


77 


man  cannot  be  sure — by  a touch  of  crimson 
lip-salve)  was  straight,  calm,  and  cold.  The 
nose  perfectly  Greek,  the  eyes  full,  but 
rather  deeply  set,  of  a profound  brown  that 
most  people  called  black.  These  were  over- 
shadowed by  a pair  of  straight,  fine  eyebrows, 
forming,  as  it  were,  the  southern  boundary  of 
a high,  pale  forehead,  which  was  surrounded 
by  the  tiny  curls  of  her  raven  black  hair, 
curls  that  framed  her  pretty,  white  ears,  as  they 
escaped  from  beneath  the  broad  brim  of  a 
hat  turned  up  on  one  side  a la  Gainsborough. 
She  paused  on  the  steps  to  finish  a remark 
that  she  was  making  to  the  Secretary,  and  as 
she  stepped  into  the  garden  she  looked  up 
and  caught  Sylvester's  eyes  fixed  upon  her. 

A great  wave  of  crimson  surged  up  from 
the  beautiful  throat  to  the  marble  brow,  and 
as  instantly  died  away,  leaving  the  dead 
white  of  her  complexion  as  it  had  been 
before. 

The  Secretary  looked  up,  and,  seeing  Syl- 
vester, exclaimed  : 

‘‘  Ah  ! Gray !”  and  then,  turning  to  his 


78 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


companion,  he  said  in  Italian:  Princesse,  I 
beg  your  permission  to  present  to  you  a 
great  friend  of  ours.”  And  then,  indicating 
Sylvester,  who  stood  bareheaded  in  the  sun- 
shine, he  made  the  presentation  in  form : 
‘‘  Mr.  Sylvester  Gray — Madame  la  Princesse 
Pamphila-Severi.” 

There  is  an  hour  in  the  life  of  man  that 
strikes  his  fate,  says  some  one  in  an  old  play ; 
and  Sylvester  Gray’s  struck  at  five  o’clock  on 
this  beautiful  March  afternoon. 

# * * # * 

It’s  not  only  a hit,  it’s  a bull’s-eye,”  said 
the  Secretary  to  me,  half  an  hour  later,  as 
we  passed  Sylvester  and  the  Princess  Pam- 
phila-Severi  walking  slowly  round  the  lawn. 
They  were  conversing  in  Italian.  He  was 
talking  volubly,  with  his  little  conquering 
air,  and  she,  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground 
before  her,  listened  to  him,  the  hardness  of 
her  expression  softened  by  the  half-smile  that 
flickered  round  her  mouth,  and  by  the  little 
spark  which  illuminated  her  eyes  beneath 
their  long  lashes. 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


79 


Who  is  she  ?”  I asked. 

‘‘  Great  Heaven ! fancy  a man  asking 
who  she  is ! Ah  ! but  you’re  a stranger,  and, 
in  a manner,  a recluse.  Well,  here  is  her 
whole  history  for  you.  She  was  the  only 
daughter  of  the  beautiful  Marchesa  di  Santo- 
Moriani,  and  on  the  death  of  her  mother,  six 
years  ago,  finding  herself  alone  in  the  world 
and  a beautiful  heiress  of  nineteen,  married 
the  young  Prince  Pamphila-Severi.  He  was 
a charming  fellow,  but  jealous  as  the  Moor 
of  Venice,  and  one  day  was  idiotic  enough 
to  grossly  insult  Vicomte  de  Brissac,  second 
secretary  of  the  French  Embassy,  because  he 
had  laughingly  remarked,  before  a room-full 
of  people  at  Prince  Torlonia’s,  that  he  would 
sooner  wear  in  his  boutonniere  a gardenia 
given  him  by  the  princess  than  the  highest 
grade  of  the  Legion  of  Honour ; and  as  the 
princess  accepted  the  challenge  and  held  out 
to  him  a gardenia  from  her  bouquet,  he  took 
the  rosette  of  the  Legion  from  his  buttonhole 
and  threw  it  in  her  lap.  Five  minutes  after- 
ward Pamphila-Severi  stamped  on  his  toe. 


8o 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


and  when  the  Frenchman  expostulated  he 
struck  him  across  the  face  with  his  glove. 
De  Brissac  killed  him  next  morning  in  the 
Borghese,  and  was  transferred  to  St.  Peters- 
burg ; and  the  princess,  six  months  only 
after  her  marriage,  became  the  coldest  and 
most  beautiful  widow  in  Rome.  But  she's 
badly  hit  at  last,  if  I mistake  not,  and  you 
and  I are  lucky  in  being  here  to  see  the  fun, 
my  dear  doctor." 

I made  up  my  mind  that  I had  better  find 
my  way  home  alone,  and  so  I took  leave  of 
our  amiable  host  and  left  the  Embassy. 

Sylvester,  at  the  door,  was  putting  the  beau- 
tiful Italian  into  her  victoria,  and  as  he  did  so 
I heard  him  say,  interrogatively  : 

A rivederla^  prmcipina 

A rivederla^  signore;  si  faccia  vedere 
presto  di  nuovoP 

La  ringrazio,  principina^  non  mane  hero. 
Andate  'stasera  al  palazzo?'' 

A moment’s  hesitation  and  a quick  blush ; 
then  shortly  : 

Si:' 


A shes  of  the  Future. 


And  the  victoria  whirled  off  over  the 
Roman  pavement.  I took  Sylvester  by  the 
arm,  and  said : 

Come  and  dine  with  me,” 

‘‘  Dine?”  he  replied;  not  exactly !”  But 
he  came  all  the  same. 

‘‘Are  you  going  to  the  ball  at  the  Quirinal 
to-night  ?”  said  he,  during  the  dinner. 

“ No,”  I replied. 

“ I must,”  said  he  ; “ she  will  be  there.” 

Until  this  moment  he  had  not  referred  to 
the  beautiful  princess,  and  I knew  him  too 
well  to  broach  the  subject. 

“ Is  she  pleasant  ?”  I asked,  unconcern- 
edly. 

“ Pleasant ! She's  the  most  superlatively 
beautiful,  the  most  maddeningly  fascinating 
woman  I ever  met !” 

I had  heard  Sylvester  say  this  of  fifty  other 
women,  but  I never  saw  such  serious  symp- 
toms developed  in  him  before.  His  silence 
and  evident  preoccupation  were  ominous, 
and  I caught  myself  wondering,  after  he  had 
left  me  to  dress  for  the  ball  at  the  palace, 


82 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


whether  the  butterfly  had  been  snared  at 
last.  Upon  my  soul,  I hoped  so ; but  as  I 
lay  back  in  my  chair  and  pushed  away  my 
neglected  proof-sheets,  I found  that  my  mind 
had  wandered  back  to  Harrow  and  to  the 
little  cottage  that  looked  towards  London,  to 
Idlesse,  to  its  terraces  and  rose  garden,  and 
a sharp  pain  flew  across  my  chest  and 
seemed  to  settle  on  my  throat  as,  in  my 
mind’s  eye,  the  Princess  Stella  Pamphila- 
Severi  stood  before  me,  and  by  her  side, 
radiant  in  the  holy  purity  of  her  girlish 
beauty,  there  came  and  stood  the  wraith  of 
Evelyn  Wooster. 

IV. 

Of  the  progress  of  this  narrative  to  its 
terrible  termination,  I know  by  personal  ob- 
servation next  to  nothing.  Until  the  last 
leaf  of  this  chapter  of  life  had  been  turned,  I 
counted  for  nothing  in  the  pages  of  the 
story;  indeed,  I never  knew  the  Princess 
Pamphila-Severi  save  by  sight  and  from 
hearsay,  until  I had  played  my  part  in  the 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


83 


last  act  of  the  drama  whose  denouement  was 
so  rapidly  approaching  when  Sylvester  left 
my  rooms  in  that  cool  March  evening  to 
dress  for  the  State  Ball  at  the  Quirinal.  But 
he  frequently  spoke  to  me  of  his  love,  of  his 
happiness,  and  of  his  misery;  and  from  these 
confessions,  joined  to  those  of  the  princess, 
whose  intimate  friend  I had  afterward  the 
honour  of  becoming,  and  with  whom  I fre- 
quently held  long,  long  conversations  on  the 
subject  of  our  dear  Sylvester,  1 have  col- 
lected, and  in  a manner  compiled,  this  sec- 
tion of  my  story — a section  which  is,  in  fact, 
my  story  itself. 

♦ ♦ 5!^  ♦ * 

Sylvester  was  not  by  any  means  a ‘‘dandy,” 
but  he  dressed  always  with  an  attention  to 
detail  which,  to  a keen  observer,  revealed 
the  real  man  to  a very  great  extent,  and  was 
infinitely  pleasing.  He  had  a theory  on  the 
subject  which  always  struck  me,  careless 
though  I always  was  in  such  matters,  as  ex- 
cellent. 

“ A man  or  a woman  can  only  appear  at 


84 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


his  best  intellectually,  when  he  knows  that  his 
appearance  is  beyond  criticism,^’  he  used  to 
say.  ‘‘  I have  seen  a charming  man  and  a 
brilliant  conversationalist  put  absolutely  hors 
de  combat  by  the  knowledge  that  he  had  been 
splashed  with  mud  on  his  way  to  a reception. 
I have  seen  a woman  entirely  lose  her  sense 
of  dignity  and  repose  by  a terrible  fear  that 
her  hair  was  coming  down ; and  I have 
seen  a lecturer  lose  the  whole  thread  of  his 
discourse  in  consequence  of  his  cravat  becom- 
ing disarranged.  It  is  therefore  one^s  duty 
to  oneself  and  to  the  world  at  large  to  be 
perfectly  ‘ turned  out  ^ at  all  points.’^ 

Sylvester’s  court  dress  was  a sartorial  tri- 
umph. His  coat  and  breeches  were  of  the 
darkest  blue  velvet,  and  innocent  of  the 
slightest  wrinkle ; his  buttons  and  the  hilt  of 
his  sword  were  of  the  most  exquisite  work- 
manship ; and  as  he  entered  the  ball-room  of 
the  Palazzo  on  this  eventful  evening,  dressed 
with  the  supremest  care,  and  with  the  Order 
of  the  Annunziata  hanging  below  his  cravat, 
he  was  well  worthy  of  the  silent  homage  that 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


8s 


was  paid  him  in  the  admiring  scrutiny  of  the 
throng  that  circulated  in  all  directions.  In- 
deed, it  would  have  been  difficult  to  have 
found  a more  perfect  specimen  of  the  genus 
homo  as  he  stood  out  from  the  crowd  in  an- 
swer to  a summons  from  one  of  the  Queen's 
gentlemen-in-waiting,  to  engage  in  a short 
conversation  with  her  Majesty,  to  whom, 
as  an  old  habitue  of  the  Eternal  City,  he  was 
well  known. 

The  ball  was  at  its  height  when,  leaning  on 
the  arm  of  her  uncle,  the  old  Prince  Marcel- 
lini,  the  Princess  Stella  Pamphila-Severi  made 
her  appearance.  There  was  a slight  move- 
ment at  the  principal  entry  as  she  stepped 
into  the  room,  dressed,  as  usual,  in  swaying 
black,  embroidered  in  jet,  her  sole  ornaments 
a band  of  diamonds  encircling  her  wrist,  and 
a diamond  crescent  set  amid  the  raven  masses 
of  her  hair.  As  she  made  her  obeisance  to 
Queen  Margherita,  no  eyes  were  more  fasci- 
nated by  the  dignity  and  beauty  of  her  pres- 
ence than  those  of  Sylvester  Gray,  as  he  stood 
against  a pillar  at  the  end  of  the  room, 


86 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


waiting  for  the  signal  that  should  call  him  to 
her  side. 

It  came  at  length,  when  she  had  dismissed 
. the  last  of  the  more  eager  candidates  for  rec- 
ognition, and  Sylvester  advanced  and  took 
his  place  at  her  side  with  the  little  imperious 
and  almost  proprietary  air  that  was  natural  to 
him  and  seemed  offensive  to  no  one.  A 
moment  later  an  aide-de-camp  spoke  a few 
words  to  Prince  Marcellini,  and,  having  smil- 
ingly dismissed  her  escort  with  a little  inclina- 
tion of  the  head,  the  Princess  Stella  found  her- 
self alone  in  the  crowd  with  Sylvester  Gray. 

“ And  how  have  you  spent  the  time  since 
we  met  this  afternoon.  Signor  Gray  ?”  asked 
she,  turning  her  eyes  full  upon  him. 

“ I have  been  with  my  friend,  the  English 
Dr.  Tompkins,  Princesse.  He  had  not  the 
honour  of  an  introduction  to  you  at  Sir  John’s, 
and  so  I had  an  eager  listener,  for  whose 
benefit  I could  put  my  thoughts  continuously 
into  words.” 

Ah  ?” — this  with  a little  ironical  inflect- 
ion— “ they  were  pleasant  ones,  I hope.” 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


87 


They  were  exclusively  of  you,  Princesse.” 

Of  course  ! And  of  what  else  ?” 

Of  myself,  naturally.” 

Yes,  naturally.  At  that  point  ot  the  con- 
versation, or  rather  of  the  monologue,  you 
must  have  been  really  interesting  and  elo- 
quent, Signor  Gray.” 

“ You  are  pleased  to  be  sarcastic,  Prin- 
cesse.  I wish  I could  flatter  myself  that  the 
most  eloquent  recital  of  the  doings  and  say- 
ings of  Sylvester  Gray  could  awaken  an  inter- 
est, however  slight,  in  the  mind  of  the  Prin- 
cess Pamphila-Severi.” 

Do  you  really  ? See,  is  it  not  close  and 
crowded  here  ? Let  us  be  seated  a few  mo- 
ments in  this  ante-room.  Do  I keep  you 
from  your  friends  ?” 

I have  no  friends,  Princesse,  when  I am 
with  you.  Indeed,  I have  no  interest  in  life, 
nothing,  save  to  be  by  your  side,  to  hear  you 
speak,  and  when  I dare,  to  answer  you.” 

Ah  ?”  as  before. 

All  this  had  been  said  on  either  side  half- 
laughingly,  half-seriously.  Sylvester  was  con 


88 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


scious  of  a nervous  curl  at  the  corners  of  his 
mouth,  and  felt  himself  growing  more  and 
more  grave,  as  the  Princess  Stella,  in  smil- 
ing, displayed  her  exquisite,  snowy  teeth,  and 
her  eyes  blazed  with  the  genuine  amusement 
of  a beautiful  woman  who  knows  her  power 
and  uses  it  boldly,  half  fearful  the  while  of 
its  effects,  and  of  its  possible  ‘‘  boomerang  ” 
qualities. 

They  had  taken  a couple  of  arm-chairs 
in  the  little  ante-room.  In  one  of  them  the 
Princess  Stella  had  thrown  herself  in  a 
graceful,  easy  pose,  and  shading  her  eyes 
from  the  light  with  her  black  feather  fan,  was 
looking  out  from  underneath  it  with  an 
amused  expression  at  Sylvester,  who,  seated 
opposite  her,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
and  playing  nervously — for  him — with  the 
lace  of  his  cocked  hat,  was  looking  back  at 
her,  his  eyebrows  slightly  contracted,  as  if  he 
hardly  knew  what  to  make  of  the  beautiful 
woman  before  him.  Hitherto  he  had  found 
them  all  the  same,  varying  only  in  rapidity 
r.nd  degree  of  conquest;  this  was  anew  va- 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


89 


riety.  There  was  something  infinitely  allur- 
ing in  the  parted,  crimson  lips  and  exquisite 
teeth,  that  was  strangely  modified  by  the 
bafilkig,  almost  repellent,  look  which  shone 
out  of  the  deep-brown  eyes,  even  when 
they  sparkled  with  the  intensest  amusement. 

“ Here  is  a woman,”  thought  he,  who 
would  lure  a man  to  the  verge  of  destruction 
and  leave  him  there,  and  be  as  cold  as  ice 
through  it  all.  And  yet,  only  to  look  at  her 
makes  my  heart  beat  as  if  I were  a boy  of 
sixteen.” 

‘‘Well,”  said  the  Princess,  breaking  the 
silence  at  length,  “ you  were  going  to  tell  me 
about  yourself.” 

“ Was  I ?” 

“You  as  good  as  said  you  were;  and  I 
want  you  to.  There’s  a confession  to  lead 
olf  with.  Now,  be  equally  frank  with  me. 
Come!  Avanti  T 

“ Really,  Princesse,  you  are  flattering  in- 
deed. What  do  you  want  to  know  about  me  ?” 

“ Everything — from  the  beginning.”  Still 
the  same  little  mocking  smile. 


90 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


“ Well,  I was  born  of  poor  but  honest  par- 
ents, not  a hundred  miles  from 

What ! I was  being  serious,  for  once  in  a 
while,  Signore/' 

And  I also.” 

‘‘Very  well,  then;  it  is  quite  obvious  that 
we  are  both  out  of  our  element  at  a ball* 
Will  you  take  me  back  ? I must  find  my 
good  uncle,  who  will  be  wanting  to  leave.” 

“ Ah ! do  not  go,  I beg  of  you.  Come, 
be  seated,  Princesse,  and  I will  tell  you 
everything  that  I have  ever  done  that  is  likely 
to  interest  you.” 

“ Cielo  I Signor  Gray.  Why,  I am  sure  I 
should  be  here  until  next  year  if  I were  to 
yield  to  the  maddening  temptation  which  I 
feel  to  accept  your  offer.  Come,  it  is  late, 
and  I must  fly.  Ah ! how  can  you  utter  such 
a banalite?  The  word  ‘ angel’  would  have 
risen  to  the  lips  of  every  other  man  in  the 
room;  I did  not  expect  it  of  you.  Do  you 
know,”  she  added,  as  Sylvester  rose  reluct- 
antly to  escort  her  back  to  the  ball-room, 
“ you  are  very  different  from  most  English- 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


91 


men  I have  met.  In  fact,  you  are  really  in- 
teresting to  me,  and  I am  hard  to  interest.  I 
checked  your  confidences  just  now;  you 
shall  make  them  to  me  to-morrow,  at  four,  if 
you  will.  Ah ! Prince,  I was  looking  for 
you.” 

And  transferring  her  hand  from  Sylvester’s 
arm  to  that  of  her  uncle,  who  gravely  saluted 
her  late  cavalier,  the  Princess  Stella  was 
gone. 

A few  minutes  later,  wrapping  his  cloak 
around  him.  Gray  left  the  Quirinal,  and,  turn- 
ing to  the  right  instead  of  to  the  left,  reached 
the  Porta  Pia,  which  he  passed  in  spite  of 
the  remonstrance  of  the  sentinel,  who  warned 
him  that  the  Campagna  was  unsafe  after  night- 
fall, and  struck  out  across  country  to  be  alone 
with  his  thoughts. 

What  they  were,  it  would  have  been  diffi- 
cult even  for  himself  to  say.  Of  one  thing  he 
was  certain ; he  had  never  been  so  fascinated, 
so  violently  attracted  by  any  woman  before. 
He  could  not  understand  her,  and,  priding 
himself  on  an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  ways 


92 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


of  woman,  gathered  from  a wide  experience 
of  the  sex,  he  was  filled  with  an  unreasoning 
anger  against  himself,  against  her,  and  against 
the  world  at  large,  at  finding  himself  baffled 
absolutely  and  completely  by  this  enigmatical 
specimen.  Honestly,  he  was  at  fault.  He 
could  not  account  for  her,  and  for  her  man- 
ner of  treating  him.  He  felt,  he  knew  that 
she  was  attracted  by  him,  and  yet  she  re- 
pelled him,  at  once,  by  her  wilfully  transparent 
misunderstanding  of  his  words,  and  by  the 
calm  dignity  with  which  she  seemed  to  treat 
him  as  a spoiled  child.  Her  very  frankness 
was  galling  to  him,  and  yet  she  must  care  for 
him  beyond  a mere  acquaintanceship  or  she 
would  not  have  defied  Italian  social  etiquette 
by  singling  him  out  for  a tete-a-tHe in  the 
midst  of  the  gossiping  crowd  at  the  Palazzo 
Quirinale.  If  she  didn^t^  she  was  a heartless 
coquette.  At  this  moment  something  inside 
himself  said  very  rudely  and  distinctly, 
“You’re  another.” 

This  was  a new  aspect  of  the  case.  Did 
he  want  her  to  care  for  him  more  than 


Ashes  of  the  Futtire. 


' 93 

merely  as  an  acquaintance?  Yes,  a thou- 
sand times,  yes  ! Well,  and  what  then?  Was 
he  prepared  calmly  and  deliberately  to  flirt 
with  her,  to  make  love  to  her  as  he  had 
done,  and  with  complete  success,  to  a hun- 
dred women  before  her  ? No,  the  idea  was 
revolting.  Could  he  imagine  her  as  his  wife? 
The  cold  glitter  of  those  wonderful  eyes  rose 
before  him  in  the  darkness,  and  he  felt  some- 
thing of  the  terror  that  one  feels  for  some 
beautiful  wild  beast  that  one  longs  to  caress 
and  to  fondle,  but  which  one  pets  very 
watchfully,  and  then  carefully  locks  back  in 
its  cage  before  turning  one's  attention  to 
something  else.  As  the  fever  of  his  imagina- 
tion increased,  he  pictured  her  to  himself 
throwing  herself  into  his  arms  and  looking 
up  into  his  eyes,  and  as  in  his  waking  dream 
he  bent  to  kiss  them,  those  wonderful  lips, 
with  their  delicate,  artificial  touch  of  crimson, 
parted  in  a little  mocking  smile,  and  revealed 
the  clinched  white  teeth  within  them,  whilst 
he  could  almost  hear  the  low  soft  laugh  that 
rippled  from  them,  as  he  thrust  the  beautiful 


94 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


head  away  from  him,  repelled  by  something 
essentially  indefinable,  essentially  fiendish. 

No,  certainly,  no.  He  was  not  in  love 
with  her  in  the  ordinary  sense  of  the  term. 
It  would  have  seemed  horrid  to  him  if  she 
had  been  in  love  with  him;  there  was  nothing 
gross,  nothing  material  in  his  feeling  for  her, 
but  he  knew  that  to  sit  near  her,  to  talk  to 
her,  to  watch  the  varying  expression  of  her 
matchless,  proud  face,  to  inhale  the  exquisite 
fragrance  that  she  spread  around  her  as  she 
moved — all  this  was  a sensuous  ecstasy  in 
which  there  was  nothing  earthly,  nothing 
sordid.  Then  he  flew  into  a violent  temper 
with  himself  for  having  paid  her  empty  com- 
pliments, instead  of  talking  seriously  during 
that  little  tete-a-tete.  It  was  his  own  cursed 
folly  that  had  cut  their  conversation  short. 
Why  did  he  treat  her  as  an  ordinary  woman, 
when  he  had  felt  that  she  was  unique  from 
the  instant  he  had  first  laid  his  eyes  upon  her? 
Great  Heavens ! It  was  only  this  after- 
noon! 

He  would  see  her  to-morrow — to-morrow 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


95 


— in  the  afternoon.  Well,  he  had  plenty  to 
do  between  this  and  then ; the  time  would 
fly.  (Oh!  Sylvester,  Sylvester!)  How  would 
she  receive  him  ? He  felt  that  if  she  should  be 
as  tempting  and  repellent,  kind  and  sarcastic 
as  she  had  been  to-day,  he  would  be  irritated, 
angry.  Diable  ! he  was  not  a child,  was  he  ? 
Very  well  then.  If  she,  so  to  speak,  hauled 
down  her  colours  and  came  like  a lamb  to  the 
slaughter,  he  knew  that  she  would  fall  forever 
in  his  estimation ; he  would  hate  her.  What 
did  he  want?  Never  mind,  he  would  go 
there  and — 

Carita,  signore,  per  amore  di  Dio.’’ 

A vile-looking  lazzarone  of  the  Campagna, 
in  filthy  contadino  costume,  stood  before  him 
with  outstretched  hand,  asking  for  alms. 
He  passed  on,  angry  at  the  interruption. 

“ Carita,  signore,  carita  ! ” 

The  beggar  was  keeping  up  alongside, 
and  the  demand  had  something  of  a threat 
in  it.  Sylvester  Gray  looked  down  at  the 
revolting  creature  trotting  by  his  side,  noted 
the  tremendous  muscles  of  the  chest  and  of 


96 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


the  extended  arm,  the  covetous  leer  in  the 
wicked  eyes,  and  the  grin  which  illuminated 
his  face  in  the  moonlight,  as  the  blackguard 
eyed  the  sparkling  buttons  on  Sylvester’s 
court  dress  and  the  jewel  of  the  Annunziata 
hanging  at  his  neck.  Gray  suddenly  awoke 
to  the  fact  that  he  was  probably  a coupje 
of  miles  beyond  the  walls  of  Rome,  and  that 
he  had  carelessly  let  his  cloak  swing  open, 
allowing  the  cut  steel  facets  and  the  gems  of 
his  ornaments  to  sparkle  in  the  moonlight. 
He  put  his  hand  into  his  pocket.  As 
is  usual  under  such  circumstances  and  in 
such  costume,  he  had  not  a centime  with 
him. 

‘‘  I have  no  money,”  said  he  shortly,  in 
Italian. 

‘‘  Oh  yes,  you  have,  signore.” 

“ I have  not.” 

Then  give  me  that,”  and  the  lazzarone 
pointed  to  the  order  of  the  Annunziata. 

Take  care,”  cried  Sylvester,  springing 
back  a couple  of  yards. 

“ Take  care  yourself,”  said  the  bandit,  and 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


97 


drawing  a long  stiletto  from  his  sheepskin  he 
sprang  forward. 

Quick  as  thought,  Sylvester  whipped  his 
rapier  from  its  sheath,  presenting  the  point 
at  the  bosom  of  the  man,  who  had  not  imag- 
ined that  his  opponent  was  armed,  and  could 
not  check  the  impetus  with  which  he  had 
sprung  forward. 

The  sword  passed  through  his  body  and 
stuck  out  at  his  back.  As  he  fell  with  a sob 
to  the  ground,  the  narrow  blade  snapped, 
and  Sylvester  stood  with  the  remaining  frag- 
ment in  his  hand,  looking  at  the  wretch  lying 
at  his  feet.  The  blade  had  passed  through 
his  heart — in  a moment  it  was  over — he  was 
quite  dead. 

He  lay  there  in  the  moonlight,  his  gray- 
white  face  turned  up  to  the  sky,  and  Sylves- 
ter, as  he  looked  at  him,  found  himself 
vaguely  wondering  what  this  man’s  history 
might  be.  Had  he  any  relations  waiting  in 
some  cabin  of  the  Campagna  for  his  return 
laden  with  the  spoils  of  the  night’s  work,  or 
was  he  some  solitary  drunken  vagabond. 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


living  alone  on  the  proceeds  of  his  vagabond- 
age?— who  could  tell?  Not  Sylvester.  At 
that  moment  something  sparkled  in  the  dust 
close  to  the  dead  man’s  head.  Gray  stooped 
to  pick  it  up  ; it  was  simply  a common  peb- 
ble with  a drop  of  dew  upon  it  that  had 
reflected  a moonbeam  like  a gem.  He  tossed 
it  from  him,  slightly  irritated  at  having 
troubled  himself  to  pick  it  up ; then  he  thrust 
the  broken  sword  into  his  scabbard.  How 
queerly  the  empty  lower  part  of  the  scabbard 
wobbled  as  he  shook  it,  almost  like  the  flexi- 
ble top  of  a fishing  rod  ; it  felt  dead.  Then 
be  turned  and  walked  back  to  the  Porta  Pia 
and  so,  down  past  the  Piazza  Aldobrandini, 
to  the  Via  Nazionale  and  his  hotel.  Wearied 
out,  he  retired  at  once  to  bed,  and  fell  asleep 
almost  immediately. 

He  dreamt  that  once  more  he  walked  down 
the  solitary  road  leading  out  onto  the  Cam- 
pagna.  The  Princess  Stella  walked  a few 
paces  in  front  of  him,  and  despite  his  most 
agonized  eflbrts  he  could  not  overtake  her. 
At  last  they  came  to  a kind  of  Chapelle 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


99 


Ardente.,  in  which  were  ranged  three  biers, 
two  only  of  which  were  occupied  by  corpses. 
On  the  first  lay  Evelyn  Wooster,  on  the 
second  the  lazzarone  whom  he  had  killed  a 
few  hours  since,  and  whom,  in  the  obsession 
of  his  mind,  he  seemed  already  to  have  for- 
gotten ; the  Princess  stood  at  the  head  of 
the  third,  and  he  at  its  feet . 

‘‘Well,  Signor  Gray,”  said  she,  with  her 
mocking  smile,  showing  her  exquisite  teeth, 
“ is  this  for  you  or  for  me  ?” 

A wild  fury  seemed  to  seize  him  as  he 
strove  to  catch  her  to  thrust  her  down  upon 
the  empty  bier;  but  she  escaped  him,  dodg- 
ing in  between  and  around  the  two  corpses, 
over  which  she  ran  her  fingers,  as  if  over  the 
keys  of  a piano,  as  she  skipped  round  them. 
At  last,  just  as  he  thought  to  hold  her,  he 
caught  his  foot  upon  the  end  trestle  of  the 
vacant  bier  and  fell  extended  upon  it.  Once 
there,  he  was  powerless  to  move  a finger,  and 
he  lay  watching  the  princess  as  she  advanced 
towards  him  ; then  she  stooped  still  lower — 
and  kissed  him — 


100 


Askes  of  the  Future. 


# # # # # 

Sylvester  woke,  trembling  in  every  limb. 
It  was -late,  and  he  rose  and  dressed  himself 
carefully  to  go  about  the  occupations  of  the 
day. 

# * * * * 

Four  o’clock  came,  and  almost  on  the 
stroke  of  the  hour  he  passed  beneath  the 
porte  cochere  of  the  Palazzo  Sever!.  On  the 
rim  of  the  basin  into  which  the  water  fell 
from  the  faucets  of  a Renaissance  fountain,  sat 
two  cats,  the  one  snow-white,  the  other  spot- 
lessly black.  Both  wore  golden  collars  round 
their  necks,  and  both  watched  the  water  with 
unblinking,  emerald  eyes.  As  Sylvester  ap- 
proached, one  of  them — the  white  one — rose 
lazily  and  stretched  himself,  closing  his  eyes 
luxuriously,  so  as  to  enjoy  the  operation  to 
the  utmost,  the  extended  claws  of  his  fore- 
feet giving  him  a firm  hold  of  the  roughened 
stone.  Sylvester  Gray  passed  on  ; he  didn’t 
like  cats. 

The  grave  mditre  cV hotel  showed  him  into 
a gorgeous  salon  at  the  top  of  a flight  of 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


lOI 


massive  steps,  and  a feeling  of  sacramental 
gloom  came  over  him  at  the  idea  of  meeting 
the  princess  amid  such  surroundings.  Next 
moment  a smiling  Parisian  maid  entered  the 
salon  by  a portiere  at  the  farther  end,  and 
summoned  him  to  the  presence  of  her  mis- 
tress. 

The  Princess  Stella’s  boudoir  was  hung  with 
embroidered  curtains  of  a pinkish  yellow — of  a 
faded  Gloire  de  Dijon  rose-color ; a few  cab- 
inets of  Venetian  Renaissance  carving  were 
strewn  with  gold  and  silver  knick-nacks  of 
all  kinds.  A brazen  candelabrum  of  Venetian 
workmanship  hung  from  the  ceiling,  and  the 
floor  was  strewn  with  skins  of  animals.  In 
one  corner,  on  an  easel,  stood  a small  Meis- 
sonnier;  in  another  stood  a second  easel 
bearing  an  exquisite  Greuze.  A book-case 
of  carved  ebony  occupied  the  space  between 
the  windows,  which  were  filled  with  the  most 
delicately  tinted  Murano  glass;  and  on  an 
occasional-table  stood  a Chinese  idol  grinning 
with  smug  self-satisfaction  at  his  own  superla- 
tive ugliness.  A door,  concealed  by  a portiere^ 


102 


A shes  of  the  Future, 


led  into  an  inner  room,  and  on  a low  divan 
covered  entirely  by  a bear-skin  of  the  deepest 
black,  lay  the  Princess  Stella. 

She  was  wrapped,  rather  than  clothed,  in 
the  loose  folds  of  a light  murrey -colored  cash- 
mere  ; her  feet,  clad  in  striped  silk,  were  thrust 
carelessly  into  oriental  slippers;  and  she  raised 
herself  upon  one  arm  as  she  extended  the 
other  to  shake  Sylvester  by  the  hand. 

So  you  have  come — really  come.  Signor 
Gray,  in  spite  of  all  your  other  engage- 
ments 

I would,  Princesse,  that  it  were  possible 
for  me  to  stay  away;  but  when  you  have  said 
‘ come,^  I have  no  longer  any  engagements.” 

‘‘  Ah ! Ah ! Ah ! Voila  que  ga  recom- 
mence I Do  not,  I beg  of  you.  Let  us  be 
sensible;  sit  down.  Seriously,  I am  glad  to 
see  you: — I have  looked  forward  all  day  to 
your  coming,  and  now  you  are  here,  you 
must  not  waste  time  in  banalith  and  compli- 
ments. And  what  have  you  been  doing  since 
we  parted  last  night  ?” 

Oh ! the  usual  things.  I spent  the  morn- 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


103 


ing  in  calling  and  writing,  the  afternoon  in 
writing  and  calling.  Nothing  of  any  interest 
disturbs  the  even  current  of  my  life.” 

And  he  is  afraid  to  tell  me  that  he  has 
killed  a man  with  those  handsome  white  hands 
of  his  !”  This  lightly  and  without  looking  at 
him. 

Princesse  !” 

You  are  astonished  ? That  is  not  right. 
Emotions  do  not  come  well  to  Signor  Syl- 
vester Gray ; they  cause  wrinkles  and  gray 
hairs,  and  are  bad.  Besides,  you  must  never 
be  astonished  at  anything  I say  to  you.  Ah !’’ 
as  he  was  about  to  interrupt  her,  I know 
many  things,  and  you  must  not  seek  to  know 
how.” 

“ But,  Princesse,  I know  I was  alone  on 
the  Campagna.  There  were  no  witnesses  to 
his  death  but  the  stars  above  us.” 

Ah  ! then  you  did  kill  him  ?” 

In  Heaven^s  name,  what  does  this  mean  ?” 

“ It  means,  Signor  Gray,  that  I saw  you, 
as  you  left  the  palace,  turn  up  towards  the 
Porta  Pia.  I knew  the  dangers  of  the  Cam- 


104 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


pagna,  and  I was  frightened — yes,  frightened 
for  you;  and  when  I arrived  here  I sent  a 
servant  to  follow  you,  but  he  only  heard  from 
a contadino.^  who  was  entering  the  gates,  that 
a lazzarone  had  been  killed  some  distance 
from  the  city.  Oh  ! my  friend,  but  I was 
frightened,  and  have  been  wretched  for  fear 
that  you  also  were  hurt.” 

“ And  you  have  taken  the  pains  to  inquire 
about  me  ?” 

Yes.  Are  you  surprised  ?” 

Surprised ! 1 am  overwhelmed.  What 

can  I be  to  you,  that  you  should  care  what 
becomes  of  me  ?” 

‘‘  Only  this.  Signore,  that  you  are  the  only 
man  that  has  ever  attracted — has  ever  inter- 
ested me.  Do  you  think  it  very  wrong  that 
I should  indulge  myself  thus,  for  the  first  time 
in  my  life  ?” 

“ And  I — what  shall  I say  to  you — what 
shall  I say  to  you  ?”  He  sank  upon  his  knees 
by  her  side,  and  covered  her  exquisite  hands 
with  kisses.  How  I love  you !”  he  mur- 
mured; how  I love  you  !” 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


105 


For  a moment  she  did  not  stir.  He  looked 
up  at  the  grand,  dark  eyes  that  were  fixed 
upon  his  in  a gaze  of  infinite  tenderness;  and 
even  as  he  looked,  his  thoughts  wandered,  in 
rebellion  against  his  will,  to  the  other  women 
at  whose  side  he  had  knelt  in  just  such  a 
manner,  and  to  whom  he  had  spoken  just 
such  words  oftentimes  before.  His  thought 
seemed  to  communicate  itself  to  her.  She 
grew  a shade  paler,  as  she  bade  him  rise  with 
a little  imperious  gesture. 

‘‘  Do  not  talk  to  me  like  that,  I beg  of  you,’^ 
she  said.  “ Keep  such  idle  words  for  the 
other  women.  I do  not  ask  them  of  you. 
It  is  enough  for  me  that  I care  for  you,  and 
that  it  is  a delight  for  me  that  you  should 
come  and  sit  here  and  talk  to  me.  Never 
tell  me  that  you  love  me.  Signor  Gray.  I 
shall  not  believe  it.” 

But  I tell  you  it  is  true,  true,  true.  You 
must,  you  believe  it.” 

She  looked  at  him  for  a moment  almost 
mournfully,  and  then,  her  lips  wreathing 
themselves  into  the  well-known  mocking 


io6 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


smile  that  he  had  learned  already  to  dread,  she 
slowly  shook  her  head  and  murmured,  No, 
no,  no.  It  is  not  true.” 

Sylvester  started  to  his  feet,  and  began 
pacing  to  and  fro  across  the  skins  strewn  upon 
the  floor.  He  stood  still,  at  last,  a few  paces 
from  her,  and  said,  in  a dry,  choking  voice, 

God  help  me  ! I do  not  know  what  to 
say  to  you.” 

No,”  she  replied,  you  have  said  it  all  so 
often  that  it  has  become  mechanical,  a mere 
theatrical  pose.^  a mise-en-scene.  You  cannot 
think  of  anything  new  to  say  to  me,  of  any- 
thing that  you  have  not  continually  said  to 
your  other  victims.  Ah ! my  friend,  do  not 
imagine  that  I am  going  to  swell  the  number, 
am  going  to  write  my  name  at  the  foot  of  the 
list.  No,  no!” 

Princesse,  angela  mia^  do  not  be  so  cruel 
to  me.  Look  at  me  as  I stand  before  you. 
Supposing  I confess  to  you,  what  you  know 
already,  that  I have  laid  my  homage  at  the 
feet  of  other  women ; granted  that  all  this 
has  made  me  a crawling,  abject  wretch,  not 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


107 


fit  to  lay  my  worthless  self  in  the  dust  before 
you ; can  you  not  believe  me  when  I tell 
you  that  I have  never  known  love  till  now, 
that  I adore  you  ?” 

No,”  said  she  slowly,  “ I cannot  believe 
you.  You  must  have  said  all  this  to  others 
before  me,  and  much  more.  Why  should  I 
flatter  myself  that  at  last  you  are  telling  the 
truth  ?” 

But  if  I am  not,  why  should  I be  here  ?” 

“ For  two  reasons:  first,  you  know  that  I 
love  you — aye,  love  you,  Signor  Gray,  but  it 
is  a confession  of  strength  and  not  of  weak- 
ness— and  you  are  flattered  and  would  will- 
ingly add  the  Princess  Stella  Pamphila- 
Severi  to  your  conquests ; and  secondly,  you 
think  it  pleases  me  to  hear  you  say,  ‘ I love 
you.’  But  it  does  not,  it  does  not.  I hate 
to  hear  you  say  it.  I would  give  my  soul  to 
be  able  to  believe  you,  but  I cannot.  You 
are  playing  with  me  as  you  have  always 
played  with  women,  and  always  will ; and  I — 
well,  it  is  enough  for  me  to  know  that  I 
value  your  companionship,  your  friendship — 


io8 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


do  not  mistake  me — above  anything  else  in 
the  world.  Oh,  how  I wish  you  would  be  a 
brother  to  me ! I should  not  care  for  what 
the  world  would  say  of  us.  Is  this  impossible, 
think  you?” 

He  paused  for  a moment,  and  then,  in  a 
half-mocking  tone,  he  replied : 

Not  at  all,  Princesse.  I will  be  a 
brother  to  you.  I will  come  and  talk  to  you 
of  my  plans,  of  my  pleasures,  of  my  triumphs 
in  the  camp  of  Mars  and  the  court  of  Venus^ 
and  when  I marry — when  I marry  ^ I say — you 
shall  be  the  first  to  wish  me  joy.  Vi piace 
cosi?"'  He  laughed  a little,  hard,  dry  laugh, 
and  flung  himself  into  a chair  at  a little  dis- 
tance, watching  her  as  she  became  white  and 
crimson  by  turns,  and  then  he  added,  ‘‘  You 
see,  Princesse,  it  is  hardly  the  same  thing,  is 
it  ? hardly  the  same  ?” 

No,”  she  said,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands,  ‘‘  it  is  not  the  same  thing.” 

And  yet  you  would  fain  believe  me ; tell 
me  why  you  cannot  do  so.” 

‘‘  Answer  me,  rather,  why  can  you  not 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


109 


fnake  me  believe  you,  if  it  is  true,  this  that 
you  say,  that  you  love  me 

‘‘  I do  not  know.  I cannot  tell,” 

And  even  as  he  said  the  words,  the  reason 
stood  out  clearly  in  his  mind.  He  could  not 
impart  a tone  of  sincerity  to  the  words  he 
had  said  so  often,  sincere,  agonizingly  sin- 
cere, though  they  were  at  this  moment.  At 
last  he  loved — loved  truly,  deeply,  passion- 
ately; but  between  him  and  his  love  there 
rose  the  impassable  barrier  of  his  past  life, 
that  stood  like  a wall  of  ice  between  them. 

And  so  he  turned  to  go,  sick  at  heart, 
overwhelmed  by  this  calamity  with  which  he 
knew  not  how  to  grapple,  how  to  contend. 

‘‘  You  will  come  again  soon  ?”  she  said. 

“ Whenever  you  will.” 

Then  to-morrow  ?” 

To-morrow,”  he  said,  reflectively,  search- 
ing his  mind  for  the  engagements  he  had 
made. 

She  saw  his  hesitation,  and  exclaimed, 
petulantly  : 

There,  there,  go  ! and  come  when  you 


I lO 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


have  time  to  spare.  I will  not  burden  your 
mind  with  thoughts  of  me.  Go,  go  !” 

‘‘  To-morrow,  then,’’  he  exclaimed,  reck- 
lessly, to-morrow  be  it,  and  so  a rivederla, 
Princesse.  To-morrow  at  this  time.” 

He  kissed  the  hand  that  she  extended  to 
him,  and  then  gazed  into  her  eyes,  a mute, 
longing  appeal  for  permission  to  kiss  the  lips 
closed  in  such  rigid  determination.  She 
divined  his  thought  and  answered  : 

“ No,  no;  you  must  leave  me.’* 

So  he  left  her;  every  pulse  beating  wildly, 
tumultuously,  the  blood  coursing  through  his 
veins  like  a torrent  of  flame.  The  position 
was  new,  overwhelming,  agonizing.  He 
could  hardly  think;  at  every  moment  he  saw 
the  beautiful  face  before  him,  and  his  dream 
of  last  night  returned  to  his  mind  with  a 
vividness  that  was  appalling. 


v. 

On  leaving  the  Palazzo  Severi,  Sylvester 
turned  into  the  Corso,  hardly  noticing  the 
direction  in  which  his  steps  were  leading  him. 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


1 1 1 


crossed  the  Via  Nazionale,  and  reaching  the 
foot  of  the  Capitoline,  scaled  the  steps  lead- 
to  the  Piazza  del  Campidoglio,  and  leaning 
on  the  parapet,  looked  out  over  the  Forum. 
Far  away  in  the  twilight  he  could  see  the 
wooded  space  stretching  out  beyond  the 
Colosseum  and  the  Arch  of  Constantine,  and 
crossing  the  Forum  and  taking  the  Via  Gre* 
goriana  almost  unconsciously,  he  was  soon 
beyond  the  gates  and  strolling  along  the 
Appian  Way  in  the  direction  of  the  catacombs 
of  St.  Calixtus.  At  the  catacombs  he  turned 
on  his  footsteps  and  returned  to  the  city. 
He  reached  the  Hotel  Quirinale  at  about 
eight,  wearied  out  with  the  strain  upon  his 
mind,  and  flung  himself  into  an  arm-chair  to 
continue  the  thread  of  thought  that  he  had 
been  spinning  ever  since  he  had  left  the 
Princess  Pamphila-Severi. 

What  was  the  note  missing  from  the  chord 
he  had  tried  in  vain  to  strike  in  chaunting  his 
song  of  worship  to  the  Princess  Stella.  He 
had  never  failed  before  in  persuading  women 
that  he  loved  them ; why  should  the  moment 


I 12 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


of  his  defeat  be  postponed  until  the  very 
moment  when  the  thought  of  failure  was  an 
agony  too  great  to  be  borne  ? Something 
told  him  that  it  was  for  the  very  reason  that 
he  had  hitherto  been  acting  a part,  that  he 
could  not  throw  his  whole  soul  into  his  words 
when  at  last  the  curtain  fell  upon  the  comedy, 
and  a scene  of  the  drama  of  real  life  began  to 
be  enacted  behind  it. 

‘‘  If  I tell  her,'’  thought  he,  that  I love 
but  her,  the  thought  of  this  woman  or  that 
woman  who  has  believed  it  before  this,  will 
come  between  us  like  a barrier  of  brass.  I 
have  said  all  there  is  to  be  said  so  often,  so 
thoughtlessly,  so  unmeaningly,  that  now,  in 
her  presence,  it  seems  sacrilege  even  to  think 
these  worn-out  platitudes  of  experimental 
love.  I must  find  some  means  of  proving 
my  love  to  her,  of  laying  open  before  her  the 
truth  that  lies  at  the  bottom  of  my  soul.  The 
truth!  My  God!  what  am  I dreaming  of? 
Do  I propose  to  myself  to  go  in  cold  blood 
to  her  and  tell  her  that  whole  horrible  story  ? 
No,  a thousand  times  no  ! I would  rather  kill 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


113 


myself.  But  how  can  I go  to  her  and  say  : I 
love  you ; I love  you,  and  I cannot  live  with- 
out you  !”  with  that  horrible  crime  on  the  soul 
that  I fling  at  her  feet  ? If  I could  succeed 
in  convincing  her  and  in  making  her  my 
own,  how  could  I live  with  between  us? 
And  suppose  that,  having  given  me  her 
love,  some  day  she  should  learn  about  it  ? 
She  knows  the  life,  the  careless,  cruel  life 
that  I have  led ; but  she  can  never  guess 
that  it  is  that  terrible  fragment  of  a past,  in 
other  respects  forgotten,  that  has  prevented 
my  marrying,  has  till  now  extinguished  even 
my  power  to  love.  To  tell  her  or  not  to 
tell  her — what  shall  I do  ? Surely  she  will 
believe  me  when  I have  torn  out  my  soul  for 
her  in  recalling  all  the  ghastly  horror  of  ten 
years  ago,  so  that  she  may  know  how  vile  a 
thing  it  is  that  grovels  in  the  dust  before  her ; 
and  yet,  when  it  is  told — and  what  greater 
proof  of  my  love  can  I offer  her  than  the 
telling? — what  if  the  horror  of  it  should  make 
her  loathe  me,  and  1 should  never  see  her 
again  ? Oh  God ! what  a punishment  is  this  ! 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


1 14 


what  a punishment ! How  richly  I have 
deserved  it  all ; and  yet,  had  you  lived,  oh 
my  sweet,  first  Love,  how  you  would  have 
pardoned  me,  and  spared  me  the  agony  of 
these  ten  years !” 

And  as  he  thought  of  Evelyn  Wooster,  the 
dream-face  that  he  conjured  up  was  oblit- 
erated by  a reclining  figure  with  laughing 
black-brown  eyes,  with  crimson  lips  and  teeth 
of  driven  snow,  which  held  up  a dainty,  white 
hand  for  him  to  kiss,  and  said  in  a half-re- 
gretful tone : 

How  I wish  I could  believe  you.  Signor 
Gray ; how  I wish  I could  believe  you  !” 

# # # # # 

He  rose  at  last,  and  having  changed  his 
dress,  issued  forth  in  the  direction  of  the  new 
quarter  that  has  raised  its  pallid  house-fronts 
against  the  blue  Italian  sky,  round  the  pre- 
cincts of  St.  John  of  the  Lateran,  to  call 
upon  the  friend  with  whom  I had  seen  him 
driving  that  first  day  in  the  Borghese,  a pro- 
minent member  of  the  American  colony  that 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


115 

has  always  kept,  and  always  will  keep,  things 
lively  in  the  Eternal  City. 

As  good  luck  would  have  it,  he  found  her 
in  and  alone,  and  after  the  first  greetings 
were  over  he  opened  his  case  with  the  ques- 
tion : 

‘‘  Have  you  read  Dostoievski’s  ‘ Le  Crime 
et  le  Chatiment  ?’ 

‘‘  Yes — what  of  it  ?” 

‘‘  Oh,  nothing ! only  I was  thinking  of  it 
to-day.  It  is  a book  which  gives  one  a 
good  deal  of  food  for  thought,  does  it  not  ?” 

Well,  yes.  But  what  particular  passage 
has  made  so  profound  an  impression  upon 
the  placid  and  unimpressionable  Sylvester 
Gray  ?” 

Several  passages ; but  particularly  the 
one  where  Rodia  tells  Sonia  that  it  was  he 
who  murdered  the  old  woman.  Do  you 
think  he  ought  to  have  told  her  ? That  it 
was  either  his  duty,  or  expedient  to  do  so  ?” 

Well,  the  circumstances  were  peculiar. 
Sonia  being  a woman  of  the  town,  for  whom 
his  feelings  were  not  so  much  love  as  an  in- 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


1 16 


describable  and  almost  morbid  attraction,  he 
could  not  expect  that  his  confession  would 
have  such  an  effect  upon  her  as  it  would  on 
an  innocent  and  pure-minded  woman.  And 
again,  you  see  he  did  not  confess  to  her  as  a 
proof  of  his  love,  but  was  rather  actuated  by 
the  selfish  motive  of  relieving  his  own  mind 
of  half  of  the  burden,  and,  by  confessing  to 
her,  of  making  her  carry  half  of  it.  It  was 
as  necessary  for  his  enfeebled  mind  to  tell 
somebody  his  secret  as  it  was  for  the  barber 
of  King  Midas ; and  she,  in  her  degraded 
condition,  was  the  only  creature  he  felt  fit  to 
associate  with.  It  was  the  sympathy  of 
infamy,  not  the  confidence  of  love.” 

‘‘  Then  you  do  not  think  that  had  they  been 
truly />/  love  with,  one  another  he  would  equally 
have  confessed,  and  that  had  she  been  ‘ an 
ideal  woman,’  he  ought  to  have  done  so  ?” 

‘‘  Certainly  not!  No  man  has  any  right 
to  -shatter  the  confidence  of  a woman  by  the 
confession  of  his  previous  follies — well,  crimes 
if  you  will.  If  the  thing  is  long  past  and 
forgotten,  it  is  his  duty  to  die  keeping  his 


A shes  of  the  Future. 


117 

secret ; his  wife  can  never  guess  it  alone,  and 
to  confess  it  to  her  before  or  after  marriage 
is  purely  cowardly.  It  is  not  the  result  of 
a high-souled  honesty,  it  is  simply  a selfish 
horror  of  paying  the  penalty  of  a sin  in  the 
past  by  keeping  the  secret  to  oneself  and 
being  the  only  sufferer  in  the  present.” 

And  supposing  there  is  always  a pos- 
sibility of  the  man's  sin  being  discovered  ? 
Do  you  not  think  that  the  constant  dread 
must  dwarf  his  love,  and  paralyze  his  efforts 
to  devote  his  whole  soul  to  his  wife  ?” 

Not  necessarily ; but  if  that  were  really 
the  case,  as  might  happen  in  the  instance  of 
a super-sensitive  man,  let  him  tell  her  after 
they  are  married.” 

And  lay  himself  open  to  the  reproach 
that  he  has  married  her  under  false  pretences  ? 
My  God  ! how  awful !” 

‘‘  Not  at  all,  my  good  man.  A little 
‘scene’  might  follow,  it  is  true;  but  you 
men  attach  far  less  importance  to  ‘ scenes  ’ 
than  we  do ; you  go  away  to  the  club  and 
smoke  it  off  We,  on  the  contrary,  have  no 


ii8 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


soothing  resource  but  tears,  which,  in  their 
soothing  effects,  are  far  behind  e^^pletives 
and  nicotine.  But  the  scene  blows  over, 
and  though  it  should  be  avoided,  if  possible 
— that^s  why  I say  dorCi  confess,  for  there  is 
always  a little  tender  spot  left  behind — a 
man’s  crimes,  which  a woman  forgives  most 
easily,  are  those  he  has  committed  against 
another  woman.  It  sounds  odd,  doesn’t  it  ? 
but  it’s  the  case.  At  first  a young  wife 
fancies  that  her  husband  has  never  loved  ♦ 
anyone  but  her,  but  this  belief  soon  gives 
way  to  another,  which  is,  that  he  has  never 
loved  anyone  else  as  much  as  her.  And 
the  latter  thought  is  an  excellent  substitute 
for  the  former,  and  is  more  lasting ! ” 

But,  my  dear  friend,  we  are  straying  far 
from  the  subject.  Rodia’s  crime  was  not  a 
prior  attachment,  it  was  the  treacherous  mur- 
der of  a defenceless  old  woman.  Now  sup- 
posing a man  has  done  something  like  that, 
or  even  worse — had  done  something  lache.^ 
infame^  disgraceful — has  he  any  right  to  take 
the  love  of  a pure  woman  without  telling  her 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


119 

what  she  is  doing  in  loving  him  ? Surely 
not. 

Ethically,  ideally,  no.  But  actually,  prac- 
tically, yes.  She  loves  him  and  he  loves  her ; 
that  is  enough.  The  crime  may  never  be 
discovered,  may  never  cloud  the  horizon  of 
their  married  happiness ; but  if  it  does  come 
out  one  day,  though  the  woman  may  be 
shocked,  stunned  for  a moment,  if  he  has 
been  a good  husband  to  her,  and  more  especi- 
ally if  she  be  a mother,  all  he  has  to  say  to 
her  is,  ^Yes,  I did  this  thing,  but  I loved 
you  so  dearly  that  I could  not  bring  myself 
to  tell  you  of  it,  for  fear  that  it  would  cloud 
your  happiness  as  it  has  clouded  mine.  I 
prayed  that  you  might  never  know,  and 
would  have  guarded  the  secret  from  you  with 
my  life;  but  now  it’s  too  late,  and  I have 
only  one  excuse ; I loved  you  then,  I love 
you  now  more  dearly  still;  the  purity  you 
have  brought  into  my  life  has  driven  the 
sharper  agony  of  remorse  from  my  soul ; can 
you  not  look  into  my  eyes  and  love  me  only 
as  you  have  known  me  ? ’ ” 


120 


Ashes  of  the  Future » 


And  you  don’t  think  that  the  knowledge 
that  they  know  will  rankle  in  the  minds  of 
both,  but  in  hers  especially  ? ” 

Not  seriously,  so  long  as  he  behaves 
himself  well ; but  to  a certain  extent  it  must, 
of  course,  and  for  that  reason — now  I am 
going  to  shock  you — I consider  it  a brave 
and  honourable  man’s  duty  to  sink  his  own 
feelings  and  lie  boldly  if  there  is  no  chance  of 
his  being  found  out.  He  ought,  if  there  are 
no  actual  witnesses  who  can  give  him  the  lie, 
to  deny  the  fact  and  defy  the  world  to  pro- 
duce its  proofs.  A loving  woman  will  believe 
her  husband  against  the  world,  and  if  by  any 
chance  his  lie  is  discovered  he  has  always  the 
resource  I mentioned  first,  he  can  plead  his 
love,  and  I,  as  a woman  of  some  experience, 
say  that  he  would  have  nothing  to  fear.” 

Sylvester  rose  to  go. 

I am  immensely  obliged  to  you,”  said 
he ; I have  learnt  a most  interesting  lesson 
this  evening  which  I shall  not  easily  forget. 
However,  there  is  one  final  question  which  I 
should  like  to  ask  you.  Supposing  the 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


I2I 


whilome  criminal  loves  a woman  of  excep- 
tional intelligence  and  strength  of  mind — do 
you  not  think  that  if  he  were  to  bare  his 
soul  to  her,  and  confess  his  crime  to  her 
before  marrying  her,  actuated  thereto  by  a 
genuine  feeling  of  honor,  she  would  take  his 
confession  to  be  the  most  convincing  proof 
of  his  love,  and  love  him  with  all  the  greater 
strength  ? ’’ 

She  might;  but  I should  consider  it  an 
exceedingly  dangerous  experiment.’^ 

VI. 

On  the  following  day  at  four,  and  on  many 
days  after,  Sylvester  found  himself  either 
seated  opposite  the  Princess  Stella  in  the 
little  quaint  boudoir,  or  pacing  feverishly  up 
and  down  the  room  across  the  tiger  skins, 
stopping  now  and  then  to  turn  and  answer 
some  laughing  remark  of  hers  with  a little 
impatient;  dramatic  gesture. 

Their  bond  of  sympathy  never  ripened 
into  anything  closer.  When  he  would  im- 
plore her  to  believe  in  his  love  for  her,  she 


122 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


would  shake  her  head  half-mournfully,  and 
compliment  him  on  his  histrionic  talents ; 
and  he,  alas!  could  not  entirely  clear  his 
mind  of  the  suspicion  that  she  spoke  what 
was  in  a great  measure  the  truth.  In  the 
midst  of  his  most  impassioned  utterances, 
when  he  would  fall  on  his  knees  by  her  side 
and  beg  her  to  look  through  his  eyes  into  his 
soul  which  was  all  hers,  there  would  flash 
across  him  a pang  of  memory  for  his  past  life, 
and  he  would  ask  himself  why  should  this 
woman  believe  in  him  more  than  the  others, 
and  he  would  suddenly  remember  having 
used  the  same  words  to  others  before  her. 
Then  these  thoughts  would  seem  to  commu- 
nicate themselves  to  her,  and  she  would  push 
him  away  with  a little  contraction  of  her 
brows  and  an  expression  almost  of  repulsion, 
and  the  next  moment  their  conversation 
would  have  resumed  its  accustomed  tone, 
and  they  would  speak  of  books,  of  pictures, 
and  of  his  travels,  but  never  of  himself. 
Often  she  used  to  say  to  him  : 

‘‘  I wonder  if  I shall  ever  know  anything 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


123 


about  the  real  you^  Signor  Gray  ? How  I 
wish  you  would  tell  me  your  real  history — I 
mean  all  that  happened  before  you  began  to 
travel — for  of  course  there  is  the  story  of 
Sylvester  Gray.” 

Heaven  forbid ! ” he  would  reply,  and 
walking  to  the  window  would  look  out  into 
the  cortile  where  the  Princess’s  cats  remained 
faithful  to  their  hopes  of  some-day  catching 
one  of  the  gold-fish  that  wandered  round 
below  them  in  the  basin  of  the  fountain. 

Yes,”  the  Princess  used  to  answer;  the 
tone  and  gesture  are  most  dramatic,  and 
would  have  impressed  those  other  women ; 
but  they  don’t  impress  me.  I want  history 
and  not  theatricals.  Come!  why  do  you  not 
some  day  throw  off  that  handsome  impene- 
trable mask  of  yours,  and  if  you  really  love 
me  as  you  say  you  do,  do  what  I ask,  and 
tell  me  something  about  yourself  ? ” 

There  is  nothing  to  tell,  Princesse,”  he 
would  say  half-bitterly.  I have  wandered 
about  the  world  and  have  acquired  the  art  of 
impressing  the  weak-minded  by  means  of  what 


124 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


you  are  pleased  to  call  my  histrionic  talent ; 
but  it  is  nothing,  and  need  not  disturb  you  so 
long  as  you  are  not  deceived  by  it.  Story — 
God  bless  you — like  Canning’s  knife-grinder, 
I have  none  to  tell  you.” 

Ah  ! Bah ! I am  tired  of  all  that.  Stop, 
I beg  of  you.” 

And  so  it  would  go  on.  It  seemed  as  if 
each  were  matched  against  the  other  in  a 
contest  of  badinage,  in  which  neither  would 
give  in,  and  neither  would  confess  to  defeat ; 
and  this  strange  friendship  continued  until 
the  end — the  end  which  came  so  tragically, 
so  unexpectedly. 

Early  one  morning  Sylvester  rose  and 
made  his  way  to  St.  Peter’s  to  listen  to  the 
mass  in  the  Capella  del  Coro.  His*  heart 
was  full  to  breaking  with  his  love  for  the 
Princess  Stella,  and  his  despair  of  ever  con- 
vincing her  of  its  existence.  Throughout 
the  service  he  sat  revolving  in  his  mind  the 
problem  which  had  led  to  the  conversation 
I have  recorded  with  his  American  friend — 
should  he  tell  her  that  history  of  his  or  no  ? 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


125 


It  was  the  only  thing  left,  his  disease  was 
desperate  and  required  a remedy  like  unto  it. 
At  any  rate  it  would  have  one  of  two  effects : 
either  she  would  pity  and  love  him,  at  last 
understanding  the  motive  of  his  strange  no- 
mad life ; or  else  the  sympathy  she  felt  for 
him  now,  would  be  turned  to  hate,  into  de- 
spite, and  it  would  all  be  over — this  uncer- 
tainty, this  heart-breaking  struggle  to  con- 
vince her  of  a love  that  she  would  fain,  but 
could  not,  believe  in. 

He  came  to  a decision  suddenly  that  after- 
noon, whilst  he  stood  before  her  in  her  dainty 
boudoir,  engaged  in  the  old,  hopeless  effort. 

“ Why  can’t  you  convince  me  ?”  she  had 
said  for  the  hundredth  time. 

“ I will  tell  you,”  said  he,  turning  sud- 
denly and  standing  over  her;  I will  tell 
you.  It  is  because  my  love  is  pollution  to  a 
woman  so  fair,  so  pure,  as  you,  and  though 
you  cannot  tell  why^  you  feel  it  to  be  so ; 
your  womanly  flair  tells  you  of  it.  Listen  ! 
I — I,  Sylvester  Gray,  the  gay,  the  insouciant ^ 
the  debonnair^  am  a coward,  a scoundrel,  a 


126 


Ashes  of  the  Future » 


criminal  too  vile  for  expression.  I told  you 
one  day,  that  I have  loved  one  woman  before 
you,  only  one,  and  that  was  ten  years  ago. 
Well,  I loved  her  wildly,  passionately ; and  she 
trusted  me  with  her  very  soul.  As  a return, 
the  trust  she  reposed  in  me  I betrayed.  I 
shattered  her  belief  in  manhood,  in  honor,  in 
myself,  and  we  parted,  not  in  hatred,  but  in 
dull,  cold  disillusionment  on  her  part,  in  pas- 
sionate remorse  on  mine.  She  never  recov- 
ered from  the  shock;  she  died  soon  after,  and 
left  me  behind  to  wander  through  the  world, 
to  continue  as  I had  begun,  a destroying 
fiend.  And  it  is  the  knowledge  of  this  that 
you  instinctively  have,  that  holds  you  from 
me ; the  face  of  that  dead  girl  stands  between 
us,  and  it  is  only  your  sweet  hands  that  can 
lay  those  reproachful  eyes  at  rest.” 

Go  on,  tell  me  everything — ^just  as  it 
happened.” 

“ So  be  it.” 

* * # * ♦ 

And  he  told  her  of  our  schoolboy  days  at 
Harrow,  of  his  love  for  Evelyn  Wooster,  and 


Ashgs  of  the  Future, 


127 


of  her  stay  at  Idlesse ; told  her  the  events  of 
that  stay  which  I had  only  been  able  to  sur- 
mise dimly,  as  some  horrible  nightmare,  and 
which  I never  knew  till  I heard  them  from 
the  lips  of  the  Princess  Stella. 

He  told  his  story  to  the  bitter  end,  exten- 
uating nothing,  excusing  nothing,  told  it  with 
a dramatic  force  that  was  terrific,  with  a 
pathos  that  was  infinite,  and  at  the  end  sank 
into  a low  fauteuil  before  her,  watching  her 
to  see  the  effect  it  had  produced  upon  her. 

She  had  hidden  her  face  in  her  hands  dur- 
ing the  recital,  and  when  he  became  silent, 
she  slowly  lowered  them  and  looked  up ; he 
was  lying  before  her  in  one  of  the  old  theat- 
rical attitudes  she  knew  so  well,  a strained 
look  of  pleading  in  his  eyes,  his  hands  con- 
vulsively clasped  before  him. 

And  suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  her  horror, 
and  pity,  and  grief  for  the  man  before  her,  as 
she  gazed  at  him,  there  came  over  her,  like  a 
wave,  the  revolting  thought  that  even  this 
was  all  a pose^  a superb  dramatic  effort,  con- 
jured up  as  a last  resource  to  impress  her 


128 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


and  persuade  her,  against  her  better  judgment 
that  he  loved  her.  As  the  idea  took  posses- 
sion other  mind,  her  face  gradually  hardened 
once  more,  and  at  last  the  lips  began  to 
wreath  themselves  into  the  little  mocking 
smile.  He  was  watching  her ; — turning  white 
to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  he  started  to  his  feet 
and  exclaimed  : 

Well!  what  do  you  think  of  me  now 

‘‘What  do  I think  of  you  now^  Signor 
Gray  ? Why,  as  a man,  exactly  what  I did 
before ; but  as  a raconteur^  as  an  improvisa- 
tore  of  the  most  harrowing  dramatic  narra- 
tives, my  opinion  of  you  is,  if  possible,  vastly 
increased.” 

“ Good  God  1 what  do  you  mean  ?” 

“ Why — I mean  that  you  have  rivetted  my 
attention  for  a couple  of  hours  with  one  of 
the  most  thrilling  romances  I have  ever 
heard ; but  you  don’t  suppose,  do  you,  that  I 
believe  it  ? Cielo ! Signor  Gray,  I know  you 
too  well.  Ah,  mo7i  ami,  mo7i  ami,  how  you 
waste  your  talents  1” 

And  she  rose  and  turned  away,  and  then 


Ashes  of  the  Future, 


129 


walking  to  the  window,  looked  out  into  the 
court-yard. 

The  brass  rings  of  her  portiere  rattled,  and 
.she  turned  suddenly.  Sylvester  Gray  was 
gone.  She  turned  once  more  to  the  window 
and  saw  him  stride  through  the  cortile^  and 
disappear  through  the  porte-cochere. 

The  Princess  Pamphila-Severi  laughed 
softly. 

“ What  a boy  it  is !”  said  she  to  herself. 

At  this  time  to-morrow  he  will  come  and 
begin  all  over  again.  How  I love  him  ! and 
how  I wish  he  loved  me  as  he  declares  he 
does !’' 

# * # # * 

Sylvester  did  not  return  next  day.  Early 
on  the  following  morning  I wrote  her  the 
following  note  from  the  Albergo  Quirin^le, 
whither,  in  the  dual  capacity  of  friend  and 
doctor,  I had  been  hastily  summoned  by 
Sylvester’s  body-servant : 

“ Madame  la  Princesse  : — I have  a duty  to 
perform  by  the  direction  of  our  friend,  Sylvester 
Gray,  in  writing  to  inform  you  of  his  death, 


130 


Ashes  of  the  Future. 


which  occurred  during  the  night.  He  left  in- 
structions that  you  should  be  informed  imme- 
diately, and  it  is  in  obedience  to  those  instruc- 
tions that  I hasten  to  apprise  you  of  this  sad 
intelligence.  Aggredite  Vassicuranza.,  etc. 

John  Tompkins,  M.  D.*' 

Half  an  hour  later,  as  I sat  by  the  side  of 
my  poor,  dead  Sylvester,  the  Princess  arrived. 
She  stooped  over  and  kissed  the  pale  lips? 
stroking  them  gently  with  her  fingers,  and 
then,  turning  to  me,  she  said : 

‘‘Tell  me  the  absolute  truth,  doctor;  this 
death  was — premeditated?” 

“ Madame,”  I replied,  “ death  resulted 
from  an  overdose  of  morphine,  which  Signor 
Gray  had  been  taking  for  some  nights  to 
procure  sleep.  It  may  have  been  accidental, 
or  it  may  have  been  premeditated ; a letter 
which  was  delivered  to  me  this  morning, 
containing  his  last  instructions  in  case  at  any 
time  he  should  die  suddenly,  and  evidently 
written  last  night  before  he  retired,  points 
with  terrible  distinctness  to  the  latter  hypo- 
thesis.” 


THE  ^T0!(Y  of  4 Y0DII1||EI^  gOfl. 


THE  STORY  OF  A YODNGER  SON. 


A Commonplace  Romance. 


I. 

Gervase  Braycrooke  was  a younger 
son.  True;  but  he  did  not  look  it. 

To  see  him  scouring  the  country  on  his 
crow-black  mare,  Dynamite,”  both  man 
and  beast  groomed  to  perfection,  stopping 
here  and  there  to  exchange  a few  gracious 
remarks  for  the  greetings  of  the  cottagers 
and  “retainers”  of  his  father’s  estate,  you 
would  have  said  that  he  was  some  benevo- 
lent young  Russian  noble,  paying  a circular 
visit  of  princely  patronage  among  his  serfs 


134  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


and  other  chattels.  He  was  only  twenty 
when  I saw  him  first,  but  he  had  already 
that  air  of  genial  command  that  character- 
ized him  in  after  life,  a manner  which  drew 
all  hearts  to  him,  but  forbade  the  slightest 
approach  to  that  familiarity  which  breeds 
contempt. 

Sir  Eric  Braybrooke's  place  was  in  War- 
wickshire, and  I am  one  of  the  enthusias- 
tics  who  declare  that  Warwickshire  is  one 
of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  midland  coun- 
ties of  England.  Consequently,  when  my 
old  school  and  college  friend.  Sir  Eric, 
wrote  to  me,  pressing  roe  to  sport  my 
oak’*  in  Lincoln’s  Inn  and,  leaving  the  law 
behind,  to  come  and  vegetate  in  Warwick- 
shire and  recuperate  my  wasted  tissues 
after  an  unusually  hard  session,  I wrote 
back  and  told  him  that  the  moment  the 
courts  rose  at  the  termination  of  the  great 
case  of  Willoughby  versus  Willoughby  (a 
cause  In  Lunacy,”  which  ended  by  nearly 
sending  all  parties  concerned  to  keep  the 
unconscious  plaintiff  company  in  his  private 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son,  135 


madhouse),  I should  bid  farewell  to  Briefs, 
Cases  for  Opinion,  Special  Pleadings,  and 
Drafts,  and  jump  into  the  first  train  that 
left  Euston  for  the  Midlands,  for  Warwick- 
shire, and  for  Kineton. 

In  all  Warwickshire,  rich  as  it  is  in  his- 
torical associations,  with  the  birthplace  of 
William  Shakespeare  at  Stratford-on-Avon 
and  the  home  of  the  Washingtons  at  Sul- 
grave,  few  villages  are  more  interesting 
than  Kineton,  which  is  situated  within  an 
easy  walk  of  the  field  of  battle  at  Edgehill, 
and  is  the  hamlet  where  his  sacred  Majesty, 
King  Charles,  the  martyr,  remained  for  a 
while  before  and  after  that  memorable 
fight.  I had  explored  the  whole  country 
round,  pretty  thoroughly,  with  Eric  Bray- 
brooke,  when  we  were  boys  at  school  to- 
gether, and  I had  been  invited  to  spend 
my  summer  holidays  on  one  never-to-be- 
forgotten  occasion  at  Braybrooke  Hall.  I 
had  not  been  into  Warwickshire  since,  and 
I looked  forward  to  my  visit  to  the  old 
place  every  bit  as  much,  now,  looking  ab- 


1^6  The  Story  of  a Younger  So7t. 


sently  out  of  the  window  of  my  chambers 
in  Lincoln’s  Inn,  with  polished  sconce  and 
silver  side  whiskers,  as  I had,  a quarter  of  a 
century  before,  when  Eric  and  I walked 
up  and  down  the  towing-path  at  Eton,  or 
discussed  the  glories  of  Braybrooke  Hall, 
as  we  dressed  after  our  matutinal  swim  at 
“Athens.” 

When,  therefore,  I had  at  last  bidden 
my  clerk  “God  speed  ” in  starting  for  our 
respective  holidays — well  earned  on  both 
sides  — and  had  reached  Kineton  after 
a somewhat  complicated  collection  of 
“changes”  on  the  London  and  North- 
Western  Railway,  it  seemed  to  me  on 
leaving  the  quaint  little  station  that  all  the 
old  landmarks  were  familiar  to  me;  I went 
back  twenty-five  years  at  a bound,  and, 
telling  Sir  Eric’s  coachman  to  take  charge 
of  my  luggage,  I set  forth  to  walk  the 
three  miles  which  intervened  between 
Kineton  village  and  Braybrooke  Hall. 

About  half  a mile  from  the  lodge  gates  of 
the  Hall  there  was,  I remembered,  a gate 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  137 


which  opened  upon  a road  that  wound  round 
among  the  Braybrooke  woods.  I determined 
to  pass  through  it,  and  reach  the  Hall  by  the 
garden  side,  a way  I remembered  of  old. 
As  I approached  it  I heard  the  sound  of  a 
horse’s  hoofs  coming  up  behind  me,  and 
iust  before  I reached  it,  a solitary  horse- 
man passed  me.  As  he  reached  the  gate, 
ha  reined  in  his  animal,  a superb  black 
mare,  with  some  difficulty,  and  turning  half 
round  in  the  road,  waited  for  me  to  come 
up  with  him.  Thus  I had  an  excellent 
opportunity  of  noting  his  appearance  — 
wnich  was  that  of  the  most  prepossessing 
young  man  that  I had  ever  seen.  He  was 
fair,  with  a young,  boyish  face  that  was 
singularly  frank  in  its  expression.  His  eyes 
struck  me  as  being  blue.  His  lithe  young 
figure  was  shown  off  to  advantage  by  his 
tightly-fitting  riding  suit  of  dark  blue  cord, 
and  as  he  sat  on  his  horse,  I could  not  help 
feeling  proud  of  him  as  an  English  boy, 
and  almost  wished  that  I had  married  all 
those  years  ago  when — but  never  mind. 


138  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son, 


As  I came  up  he  saluted  me  military-fash- 
ion with  the  butt  of  his  riding  whip  and 
said  in  a soft  musical  voice: — 

“ Might  I trouble  you,  sir,  to  open  this 
gate  for  me;  my  mare  is  having  a great 
game  at  my  expense  and  won’t  let  me  get 
off  and  open  it  for  myself.” 

“Certainly,”  I replied,  and  as  I did  so,  I 
added,  “ Does  not  this  gate  lead  through 
the  Braybrooke  woods?  ” 

“Yes,”  replied  the  boy,  “and  if  you’re 
going  to  Elverly,  you’ll  find  it  a short  cut 
and  a pretty  walk,  but  bear  to  the  right  or 
you’ll  not  get  to  the  house.  Thank  you 
very  much;  Good  day,  sir.”  And  with  the 
words  he  lifted  his  hat  and  bowed  in  his 
saddle  as  if  to  a woman,  gripped  his  mare 
with  his  knees,  and  swept  off  into  the  woods. 
I couldn’t  help  hoping  as  I walked  through 
the  old  woods  where  I had  rambled  as  a 
boy,  that  I should  find  out  who  the  young 
fellow  was.  He  was  good  to  look  at  and  I 
was  glad  I had  met  him. 

Sir  Eric  Braybrooke  was  waiting  for  me 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  139 


on  the  piazza  in  front  of  the  drawing-room 
windows  of  the  Hall.  He  made  me  wel- 
come to  his  old  Tudor  mansion,  and  it  was 
with  a feeling  of  the  most  genuine  satis- 
faction that  I sat  down  with  him,  in  the 
cosy  room  that  had  been  set  apart  for  my 
use,  to  indulge  in  a little  chat  on  old  times 
before  dinner.  We  were  to  be  a compara- 
tively small  gathering  that  evening;  the  ma- 
jority of  the  guests  were  to  arrive  the  next 
day;  at  present  the  house  party  consisted 
of  Sir  Eric  and  Lady  Braybrooke  and  their 
sons  Eric  and  Gervase,  their  daughter  Miss 
Constance  Braybrooke,  Miss  Rosamund  Gil- 
bert (a  distant  relation  of  the  family,  a prote- 
gee of  Sir  Eric’s  who  had  been  educated  with 
his  children)  Lord  George  Wilmyngton,  and 
myself.  Next  day  we  were  to  be  invaded 
by  half-a-dozen  others,  so,  as  Sir  Eric  grim- 
ly remarked,  we  must  make  the  best  of  our 
one  quiet  evening  together.  Thus  posted, 
he  left  me  to  dress  for  dinner. 

As  a bachelor  and  a hard  worker  I dress 
quickly,  and  when  I came  downstairs,  I 


140  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


found  myself  alone  in  the  drawing-room 
with  a strange  young  woman,  and  a self- 
possessed  withal.  She  was  tall  and  dark, 
with  the  freshest  of  complexions  and  the 
most  wonderful  wondering  eyes.  She 
arose  as  I came  into  the  room  and  looked 
an  interrogation  point  at  me.  I concluded 
that  she  must  be  Miss  Braybrooke,  so  I re- 
marked: — 

“Miss  Bra3^brooke,  I presume.” 

“ No,”  replied  she,  “my  name  is  Gilbert. 
I am  related  to  the  Braybrookes  in  a com- 
plicated manner  which  I could  explain  to 
you  by  means  of  a diagram,  but  I am  afraid 
hardly  without.” 

“ Pray,  do  not  trouble  on  my  account, 
Miss  Gilbert,  ” I rejoined,  and  in  two 
minutes  we  were  the  best  friends  in  the 
world. 

In  a word,  she  was  charming,  and  I was 
quite  sorry  when  two  young  m.en  m super- 
lative evening  dress  entered  the  room, 
whom  Miss  Gilbert  introduced  as  Mr. 
Gervase  Braybrooke  and  Lord  George 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  141 


Wiimyngton.  His  lordship  bowed  and 
dropped  into  a seat  beside  Miss  Gilbert; 
in  Gervase  Braybrooke  as  he  extended  his 
hand,  I recognized  my  young  cavalier  of 
the  afternoon. 

“ Surely,  we  have  met  before,"  said  he, 
‘‘and  I must  apologize  for  my  unconcious 
discourtesy.  Had  I dreamt  for  an  instant 
that  you  would  walk  up,  instead  of  driving 
from  the  station,  I might  have  guessed 
your  identity,  and  should  have  walked  up 
with  you.  As  it  was,  my  mare  Dynamite 
was  giving  me  momentary  proof  of  my  dis- 
cernment in  my  choice  of  a name  for  her, 
and  I was  only  conscious  of  having  begged 
a gentleman  to  act  as  lodge-keeper  for  me, 
and  of  having  ridden  on." 

I was  delighted  to  find  him  so  soor\  ea, 
pecially  as  I found  that  he  would  bea\  a 
closer  inspection.  The  next  moment  Lady 
Braybrooke  and  her  daughter,  a beautiful 
blonde  of  nineteen,  came  into  the  room, 
followed  by  Sir  Eric  and  his  eldest  son, 
who  were  apparently  engaged  in  close  con- 


142  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


fabulation  on  some  matter  of  importance; — 
and  then  we  filed  in  to  dinner. 

It  did  not  require  much  legal  discern- 
ment to  see  how  matters  lay  among  the 
party  assembled  in  the  oak-panelled 
dining-room  of  Braybrooke  Hall.  Evi- 
dently the  family  were  all  on  the  most 
friendly  terms  with  one  another,  and  from 
Sir  Eric  down  to  Constance,  were  as  light- 
hearted a crew  as  could  be  imagined — with 
the  exception  perhaps  of  the  elder  son, 
Eric,  who  struck  me  as  being  reserved  al- 
most to  the  verge  of  gloom.  Miss  Rosa- 
mund Gilbert  was  the  brightest  perhaps  of 
us  all,  but  it  was  plain  from  the  way  she 
continually  flung  the  ball  of  conversation 
into  his  lap,  that  Gervase  was  her  favorite, 
a fact  which,  not  escaping  the  observation 
of  Lord  George  Wilmyngton,  seemed  to 
cause  that  gentleman  no  small  annoyance. 

After  the  ladies  had  left  the  table,  the 
three  young  men  immediately  excused 
themselves  and  strolled  out  through  the 
open  windows  of  the  dining-room  to 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  143 


smoke  a cigarette,  with  the  permission  of 
the  ladies,  on  the  verandah.  Sir  Eric  and 
I remained  behind  to  talk  over  old 
times  together.  From  the  past,  we  grad- 
ually came  to  the  present,  and  from  gener- 
alities we  arrived  at  particulars.  It  seemed 
that  there  had  been  a boy  and  girl  attach- 
ment between  Gervase  and  Rosamund  Gil- 
bert all  their  lives.  They  had  been 
brought  up  together,  and  Sir  Eric  only 
awaited  the  time  when  Gervase  should  have 
hewn  out  a position  for  himself  in  the  In- 
dian Civil  service,  to  receive  his  beautiful 
protegee  into  even  more  close  relationship 
with  his  family.  It  was  not  an  engage- 
ment; oh,  no!  nothing  formal  or  definite^ 
but  an  understood  thing — an  understood 
thing.  But  the  Braybrooke  estates  were 
strictly  entailed,  and  descended  with  the 
title  to  the  eldest  son,  the  serious  Eric,  a 
young  man  of  whom  I am  inclined  to  think 
his  father  stood  somewhat  in  awe — anyhow 
I fancied  I detected  a regretful  ring  in  the 
worthy  baronet’s  voice  when  he  told  me 


144  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


the  time  was  drawing  near  when  Gervase 
must  join  the  Civil  Service  Corps  in  India 
and  be  away  from  Braybrooke  for  four  or 
five  years. 

Somehow  / felt  sorry  too,  but  I was  glad 
that  these  two  young  people  who  had  indi- 
vidually created  such  a favorable  impres- 
sion upon  me,  were  united  by  a bond  so 
tender  as  that  of  the  understanding”  that 
existed  between  them. 

We  two  old  gentlemen  did  not  go  out  on 
the  verandah,  but  rejoined  the  ladies  by 
way  of  the  drawing-room.  Eric  Bray- 
brooke was  sitting  by  his  mother.  Lord 
George  Wilmyngton  stood  by  the  piano  lis- 
tening to  Constance  Braybrooke,  as  she 
dreamily  touched  the  keys,  and  crooned 
snatches  of  old  English  ballads.  The 
other  two  were  nowhere  to  be  seen. 

Where  are  Gervase  and  Rosamund?” 
inquired  Sir  Eric. 

‘^Oh!  they’re  walking  round  and  round 
as  usual,”  answered  Miss  Braybrooke 
from  the  piano, 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  145 


The  next  moment  the  pair  in  question 
appeared  arm-in-arm  in  the  open  window, 
the  girl’s  white  frock  standing  out  against 
the  blackness  of  the  garden  beyond,  and 
the  boy  rendered  the  more  conspicuous  as 
he  stood  by  her  side,  his  black  dress  suit 
thrown  up  by  the  whiteness  of  his  waist- 
coat and  shirt-front.  What  a handsome 
picture  they  made,  to  be  sure,  as  they  stood 
there!  She  had  thrown  a white  goat-wool 
shawl,  such  as  the  women  weave  on  the 
Pyrennean  slopes,  round  her  shoulders  and 
over  her  head,  and  it  made  a charming 
framework  for  her  lovely  face.  They  stood 
there  looking  in  at  us,  as  if  they  were  defy- 
ing critical  examination,  and  indeed  well 
they  might,  for  it  would,  1 think,  have  been 
hard  to  find  in  all  humanity  a more  per- 
fectly matched  couple.  I glanced  round 
the  room  to  see  what  was  the  impression 
that  the  picture  made  on  the  rest  of  the 
company.  In  Lady  Braybrooke’s  expres- 
sionThere  was  an  air  of  conscious  pride,  in 
that  of  her  daughter  the  most  genuine 


146  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


admiration  and  affection;  Lord  George 
Wilmyngton  had  turned  a shade  paler,  and 
was  nervously  biting  the  end  of  his  mous- 
tache; Eric  Braybrooke  alone  looked  on  as 
if  he  was  amused  by  the  scene;  as  for  me, 
I turned  and  looked  at  Sir  Eric — he  caught 
my  glance  of  enquiry  and  smiled  affirma- 
tively. 

I was  glad — very  glad  that  it  was  so. 

‘‘Well,”  said  Gervase  after  a pause, 
“why  don’t  you  ask  us  to  come  in?  we’ll 
come  if  we’re  invited,  otherwise  we  shall 
continue  our  promenade  and  philosophical 
confab’.  We’ve  been  discussing  a most 
intricate  point;  and  that  is,  supposing  the 
existence  of  two  people  who  are  as  much 
in  love  with  one  another  as  Rosa  and  I are, 
in  the  event  of  the  girl  going  off  and  mar- 
rying some  other  fellow,  can  they  remain 
as  good  friends  as  ever,  afterwards,  with- 
out making  fools  of  themselves  and  one 
another?  Now  I say  they  could,  and 
Rosa  says  they  couldn’t.  I say  that  if 
Rosa  goes  and  marries  my  hated  rival, 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  147 


whoever  he  is,  I shall  come  and  live  with 
them  and  be  just  as  jolly  as  ever;  and  she 
says  she  would  leave  orders  with  the  ser- 
vants to  say  ^^Not  at  home”  whenever  I 
called,  and  that  if  I was  always  about  the 
place,  it  would  end  in  our  falling  in  love  in 
real  earnest.  What  do  you  think,  Wil- 
myngton?  ” 

*‘Well,”  replied  his  lordship,  think 
there  is  very  little  doubt  that  you  would 
end  by  falling  in  love  with  Miss  Gilbert, 
but  I don’t  see  that  it  need  necessarily  be 
reciprocal!  ” 

^‘But  I think,”  said  Lady  Braybrooke, 
^‘that  you  might  do  something  better  than 
waste  your  time  talking  such  nonsense. 
Anyhow  you  are  not  going  to  walk  about 
any  more  to-night  in  the  damp.” 

*‘You,  none  of  you,  ask  me  my  opinion, 
I observe!”  said  the  elder  brother,  putting 
down  the  book  he  had  taken  up,  ^^and  as 
you  don’t  seem  to  want  it,  here  it  is:  I 
think  that  if  a man  sees  too  much  of  a 
woman  he  has  been  in  love  with  before  she 


14S  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


married  some  other  fellow,  either  they  will 
fall  in  love  over  again,  only  more  so,  or 
else  familiarity  will  breed  contempt,  and 
they  will  come  to  the  conclusion  that  they 
can’t  imagine  what  they  ever  saw  in  one 
another.” 

And  amid  the  silence  which  followed, 
Eric  Braybrooke  got  up  and  left  the  room. 

Your  elder  boy  is  no  fool,”  remarked  I 
sotto  voce  to  Sir  Eric. 

*‘No,  indeed!”  replied  his  father  drily. 

And  then  the  conversation  became  gen- 
eral on  other  subjects.  Lord  George  took 
a seat  next  to  Miss  Gilbert,  and  Gervase 
came  over  to  persuade  his  sister  to  play 
some  favorite  tunes  for  him. 

I retired  comparatively  early  that  even- 
ing, and  did  not  join  the  rest  of  the  men  in 
the  smoking-room;  consequently  I was 
down  early  next  morning,  and  stepping 
out  into  the  garden,  the  first  object  that 
met  my  eyes  was  Gervase  dressed  in  white 
flannel,  superintending  the  marking  out  of 
the  tennis  court.  Close  by,  in  a hammock 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  149 


swung  between  two  trees,  lay  Rosamund 
Gilbert,  clad  also  in  the  whitest  and  fresh- 
est of  frocks,  swinging  lazily  to  and  fro  in 
the  morning  sun,  while  she  kept  up  a brisk 
fire  of  conversation,  chaff,  and  repartee 
with  Gervase. 

As  I made  my  appearance  Gervase  ad- 
vanced across  the  lawn  to  greet  me,  and 
Rosamund  cried  out  across  the  court: — 

“ Good  morning,  Mr.  Cornell,  do  you 
mind  my  not  scrambling  out?  It  is  so  un- 
graceful. Come  and  be  poetical;  here  you 
see  milk  in  a tin  bowl — only  one  bowl  for  the 
three  of  us — with  the  dust  and  hairs  and 
leaves  and  things  not  strained  off;  goose- 
berries, peaches,  and  grapes,  with  earwigs 
crawling  about  them.  Peter  and  I — I 
always  call  Gervase,  Peter,  because  he’s  the 
only  person  who  carries  keys  of  all  the  gates 
about  with  him — Peter  and  I always  do  this, 
we  get  so  awfully  hungry  before  breakfast. 
You  can  sit  on  the  end  of  the  hammock  if 
you  think  it  is  safe,  but  7 should  advise  you 
to  take  Peter’s  coat,”  and  so  saying,  she 


150  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son, 


flung  me  Gervase’s  white  flannel  coat, 
which  she  had  been  using  as  a pillow,  and 
which  I spread  out  on  the  grass  and  sat 
down  upon. 

To  cut  along  story  short  everything  that 
I saw  of  this  inseparable  couple,  I liked 
more  and  more.  Whenever  the  girl  was 
not  with  Gervase,  Lord  George  was  her 
devoted  cavalier,  and  it  was  plain  that  she 
only  had  to  say  “yes”  to  become  Lady 
George  Wilmyngton;  but  it  was  equally 
plain  that  she  was  not  going  to  say  “yes,” 
and  often  when  I saw  his  lordship  biting  his 
moustache  as  he  watched  the  pair  go  off 
demurely  arm-in-arm  to  lose  themselves  in 
the  woods,  I used  really  to  pity  the  young 
fellow,  who  loved  Rosamund  Gilbert  so 
deeply  and  so  hopelessly. 

One  day  I had  a talk  to  Sir  Eric  about 
it;  he  seemed  to  take  it  all  as  a matter  of 
course,  and  was  inclined,  as  so  many  coun- 
try gentlemen  seem  to  be,  to  bother  very 
little  about  the  affairs  of  other  people  so 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  15 1 


long  as  they  did  not  directly  and  person- 
ally concern  himself. 

*^Oh!  ” replied  he,  in  answer  to  a ques- 
tion of  mine,  “ Gervase  and  Rosa  under- 
stand one  another  perfectly,  and  when  he 
comes  back  from  India  they’ll  be  married 
— they’ve  plenty  of  time  before  them;  she’s 
only  seventeen — yes,  he  is  twenty — I shall 
be  glad  to  see  them  married,  for  she’s  a 
sweet  girl,  and  he’s  as  good  as  gold,  I be- 
lieve.” 

I was  almost  annoyed  that  the  engagement 
was  not  formally  expressed  between  them; 
I had  seen  so  many  young  hearts  separated 
by  a misunderstanding  which  could  not 
have  occurred  had  they  been  bound  to- 
gether by  a definite  promise  given  and  re- 
ceived. Alas!  I believe  it  occurs  every 
day.  A boy  and  girl  are  thrown  together, 
brought  up  together,  are  “the  best  friends 
in  the  world  ” — the  very  freedom  with 
which  they  avow  to  the  world  and  to  them- 
selves their  unclouded  affection  for  one 
another,  the  matter-of-course  nature  of 


152  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


their  companionship  seems  to  forbid  the 
suggestion  of  anything  deeper,  tenderer, 
warmer.  Then,  one  day,  they  suddenly 
discover  that  there  is  something  unex- 
pressed between  them;  in  a word,  that 
though  it  is  not  blazoned  forth  to  the 
world,  they  do  love  one  another,  and  then, 
though,  as  before,  nothing  is  said  on  the 
subject,  their  friends  say,  “ they  understand 
one  another.*’  It  is  the  girl  who  finds  this 
out  first,  as  a rule,  and  it  is  her  sudden 
new  consciousness  of  manner,  a word  in  a 
conversation  that  suggests  the  tru^  state  of 
affairs  to  the  boy,  and  then — though  as  be- 
fore, no  actual  word  of  love  passes  between 
them — their  sympathy  becomes  more  ten- 
der, more  delicate,  more  conscious  of  its 
own  existence;  they  assume  little  proprie- 
tary airs  with  regard  to  one  another,  and 
everything  seems  wrapped  in  an  indolent, 
treacherous  calm. 

Whenever  I see  a little  drama  of  this 
kind  being  played  between  two  young 
people,  I am  reminded  of  some  verses  that 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son,  153 


were  written  once  under  similar  circum- 
stances by  a young  poet  of  my  acquaint- 
ance, which  are  entitled  “ Sympathy,”  and 
which  run  as  follows:  — 

“ Hush!  do  not  speak,  lest  the  spell  that  enthralls  uy 
Break  like  the  smouldering  spark  into  flame. 

Still! — Make  no  sign,  lest  the  small  voice  that  calls  us 
Fill  this  whole  planet,  for  me,  with  your  name. 

“ Absence  is  death,  to  be  near  you  is  madness, 
Madness  or  death?  which  of  these  will  yoti  choose 
Say,  what  is  death  to  the  anguish,  the  sadness 
Of  finding  a life  which  we  find  but  to  lose. 

“ Hush!  if  you  speak,  you’ll  drag  down  to  existence 
A spirit  that  hovers  o’er  our  twin  souls  above; 
Which  will  make  us  its  own  with  a tender  persistence, 
That  wakes  us  at  last,  but  to  say: — ‘ This  is  love.'  ” 

And  so  it  goes  on,  this  deadening,  Ji- 
ing  thing  known  as  “ an  understan-^.i.^/ 
until  one  of  two  things  happens.  Either, 
something  calls  the  boy  or  the  girl  away; — 
if  it  is  the  girl,  it  is  generally  another  lover, 
and  this  brings  matters  to  a head,  their  love 
becomes  expressed  and  consummated;  if 


154  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


it  is  the  boy,  it  is  generally  a call  to  his 
work  in  the  world,  and  too  often  he  goes 
off  with  a smile  on  his  lips  and  words  of 
hope  on  his  tongue,  to  a life  full  of  incident 
and  occupation,  and  leaves  her  to  what:  — 
to  her  own  lonely  thoughts,  and  to  wonder 
if  he  ever  really  loved  her. 

Or,  the  more  subtle,  the  more  insiduous, 
the  more  deadly  poison  of  familiarity — of 
custom^ — of  satiety — creeps  into  the  cup  of 
their  contentment,  and  unless  they  are  sep- 
arated at  once,  the  sweets  of  sympathy  be- 
become  changed  into  the  acids  of  antip- 
athy, and  they  part  coldly,  by  common  con- 
sent, with  an  uneasy  feeling  of  relief  which 
neither  can  account  for,  and  of  which  both 
feel  ashamed.  An  understanding  ” is  like 
a pinch  of  powdered  sugar  flung  into  a 
goblet  of  champagne — at  first  it  froths  up 
with  the  excitement  of  chemical  combina- 
tion, but  with  each  successive  pinch  the 
evervescence  is  less  and  less  pro- 
nounced, till  at  last  the  surface  becomes 
clear,  and  the  sugar  which  has  been  thrown 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  155 


in  lies  a sticky  cloying  mass  at  the 
bottom  of  the  cup. 

Or,  again — since  we  are  analyzing  the 
matter — let  us  take  another  simile  which 
too  often  illustrates  the  termination  of  a 
boy-and-girl  attachment,  or  of  what  is  mis- 
called, for  want  of  a better  term,  a “ pla- 
tonic friendship.”  Have  you  ever  seen  an 
insulated  metal  globe,  highly  charged  with 
positive  electricity  placed  close  to  another 
charged  negatively  in  a locality  where  the 
air  is  dry?  So  long  as  the  atmosphere  re- 
mains as  it  was,  the  globes  remain  highly 
charged  with  mutually  attractive  electrici- 
ties. Presently,  however,  the  air  becomes 
warmer  and  moister,  and,  acting  inductively 
upon  one  another,  the  globes  become  grad- 
ually ‘discharged”  by  one  another’s  prox- 
imity. No  spark,  no  report,  but  impercep- 
tibly each  has  taken  from  the  other  all  that 
it  can  give,  and  when  the  electrician  turns 
his  attention  to  them,  he  finds  them  abso- 
lutely normal;  neither  of  them  attracting 
or  being  influenced  by  the  other.  And  so, 


156  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


alas!  too  many  of  these  pure  boy-and-girl 
loves  come  to  imperceptible  and  untimely 
grief.  Let  them  be  brought  together,  say 
I!  let  us  hear  the  ^‘snap!”  as  the  spark 
flies,  let  their  affection  be  acknowledged 
honestly,  before  God  and  before  man! 

Pardon  me  this  digression — but  it  has 
been  germane  to  my  story,  believe  me. 
Thoughts  such  as  these  continually  oc- 
curred to  me  during  the  bright  summer 
weeks  which  I spent  at  Braybrooke  Hall, 
and  one  morning,  coming  down  early,  I 
found  Gervase  standing  on  the  gravel  walk 
throwing  pebbles  at  Rosamund’s  window 
to  awake  her.  As  I reached  him,  a white 
arm  waving  a handkerchief  appeared  from 
behind  the  curtains.  ‘‘All  right,”  shouted 
he,  and  then  turning  to  me,  he  said, 
“That’s  the  signal  by  which  I know  that 
she’s  not  only  awake,  but  out  of  bed.” 

“What  friends  you  are!  ” said  I,  and  he 
replied  enthusiastically: 

“Yes — we  are.  She’s  the  sweetest  and 
the  cleverest  and  the  handsomest  girl  I 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  157 


ever  knew,  and  I don’t  know  what  my  life 
would  have  been  without  her.” 

And  when  are  you  going  to  be  married 
to  one  another?  ” I asked. 

‘‘Oh!  that  won’t  be  till  I come  back  from 
India.  Until  I’m  ‘ something’  over  there,  I 
can’t  afford  a wife,  you  know;  but  she’ll 
wait  for  me,  Mr.  Cornell,  she’ll  wait  for 
me.” 

“But  it  is  not  a definite,  absolute, 
gagement^  I think  I heard  your  father  say?” 

“No,  because,  you  see.  I’m  very  young 
and  so  is  she,  and  she’s  never  seen  any 
other  fellow  hardly.  I should  be  very 
sorry  to  tie  her  down  by  any  promise  to 
me,  before  she’s  had  an  opportunity  of  see- 
ing if  she  likes  another  fellow  better;  but 
if  she’s  the  girl  I think  and  know  she  is,  I 
don’t  believe  anyone  could  make  her  hap- 
pier than  I could,  and  she  knows  it.” 

“ Do  you  ever  talk  together  of  your 
future  lives?  ” 

“No;  it  isn’t  necessary.  The  present  is 
so  good  and  lovely,  that  all  we  care  to  know 


158  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


about  the  future  is  that  it  will  be  just  like 
the  present.  I haven’t  a thought  in  the 
world,  Mr.  Cornell,  that  isn’t  of  her  or 
that  she  doesn’t  share,  and  she  knows  it; 
what  more  can  a man  want?  ” 

I couldn’t  help  thinking  that  as  a true 
friend  of  both  of  them,  I should  have 
wanted  a good  deal  more,  but  it  was  un- 
necessary to  say  it,  and  I merely  replied: — 
^‘Well,  my  boy,  I agree  with  you  that 
she’s  a sweet  and  a charming  girl,  and 
I wish  you  every  happiness  for  the  future. 
If  ever  you  want  any  other  friend  than 
your  father — which  Heaven  forbid — re- 
member that  William  Cornell  of  50  Old 
Square,  Lincoln’s  Inn,  is  ready  and  willing 
to  do  anything  he  can  for  you.” 

Thank  you,”  replied  the  boy,  “thank 
you,  Mr.  Cornell.  I hope  the  only  claim 
I shall  ever  make  on  your  friendship  will 
be  to  ask  you  to  rejoice  with  me  in  the 
happiness  of  my  future.  Do  you  see  this 
half-opened  rose?  It  is  lovely  as  it  is,  is  it 
not?  Well  that’s  our  present;'  when  it 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son,  159 


opens  fully,  it  will  still  be  lovely,  but  in  a 
different  way — like  this.’' 

And  he  spread  open  the  unfolding  petals 
with  his  fingers.  A common  mishap  had 
befallen  the  poor  rose;  a second  calyx  and 
set  of  petals  had  sprouted  inside  the  first. 
The  rose  would  bloom,  yes,  and  the  inner 
rose  would  rival  the  outer  one  in  sweetness; 
but  neither  could  ever  become  perfect, 
though  the  imperfection  would  not  become 
visible  until  the  rose  had  become  mature. 
A sharp  contraction  of  the  features  revealed 
the  sudden  pang  that  shot  through  the 
boyish  heart  at  my  side,  as  he  flung  the  im- 
perfect flower  into  a rubbish-basket  at 
his  feet. 

At  that  moment  Rosamund  Gilbert  joined 
us,  her  freshness  and  loveliness  putting  to 
shame  the  clematis  she  had  stuck  carelessly 
into  her  waist-belt.  Gervase  glanced  at 
me  with  a curious,  almost  aged  look,  and 
then  took  the  hand  I extended  to  him  and 
shook  it  silently.  Next  moment  Rosamund 
had  taken  me  by  one  arm,  and  him  by  the 


i6o  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son, 


other,  and  together  we  strolled  down  to  the 
stream  for  a row  before  breakfast. 


II. 

Hullo!  Gervase,’'  said  Sir  Eric,  as  we 
took  our  seats  at  the  breakfast  table,  here’s 
an  evil-looking  letter  for  you  from  the  Civil 
Service  Commission;  it  looks  suspiciously 
to  me,  as  if  it  meant  that  you’ve  got  to  go 
up  to  town  and  ‘try  again  ’ for  your  exami- 
nation.” 

“ Indeed,”  said  Rosamund,  with  quick 
indignation,  “there’s  no  possibility  of  any- 
thing of  the  kind.  It  is  to  say  that  Peter’s 
come  out  at  the  head  of  the  list.  Ploughed 
indeed! — the  idea!  ” 

Meanwhile  the  boy  had  opened  the  letter 
and  was  reading  it.  I was  not  the  only  per- 
son at  the  table  who  anxiously  watched  his 
face  as  he  did  so,  and  whose  heart  sunk 
within  him  as  he  noticed  the  hardening  of 
his  features,  and  the  sudden  pallor  which 
overspread  them.  I could  see  an  anxious 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  i6i 


look  come  into  Sir  Eric’s  and  Rosamund’s 
face,  as  the  former  said  cheerfully: — 

Well  lad,  what  is  it?  ‘pass’  or  ‘plough,’ 
eh?” 

“ Pass,”  said  the  boy  drily,  and  did  not 
add  another  word  as  he  pocketed  the  en- 
velope. 

Rosamund  had  turned  and  was  talking  at 
the  moment  to  Lord  George  Wilmyngton, 
and  without  looking  round  at  Gervase  who 
sat  on  the  other  side  of  her,  held  out  her 
left  hand  for  the  letter.  She  had  a little 
imperious  way  of  demanding  his  letters 
when  they  were  interesting,  and  he  always 
handed  them  over  at  once  if  she  wanted 
them.  This  morning  he  did  not  do  so,  and 
with  a little  impatient  contraction  of  the 
eyebrows,  she  half  turned  her  head  and 
said: — 

“Give  it  me  directly.” 

“ No,” — quite  shortly. 

“Peter!”  she  exclaimed  in  mock  warn- 
ing, “how  dare  you?” 

“I  don’t  want  to  show  it  to  you,  that’s 
all,”  he  replied. 


1 62  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son, 


She  turned  her  lovely  eyes  full*  on  him, 
and  with  almost  atone  of  annoyance  in  her 
voice — for  no  woman  likes  a sudden  mu- 
tiny against  her  acknowledged  authority  in 
public,  especially  when  the  public  ’’means 
other  women — remarked  gravely:  — 

Peter,  I believe  that  letter  says  you’ve 
been  ^ ploughed,’  and  you’re  ashamed  to 
confess  it  before  everybody;”  and  with 
these  thoughtless  words  she  turned  and 
continued  her  conversation  with  Lord 
George. 

Gervase  Braybrooke  flushed  scarlet,  and 
then  turned  deathly  white.  I expect  that 
this  was  the  first  time  in  his  life  that  any 
one  had  ever  suggested  the  possibility  of 
his  telling  a lie.  Thoughtless  words  in- 
deed! but  in  that  second  of  time  the  whole 
drama  of  Gervase  Braybrooke’s  life  in  the 
future  was  plotted  out,  and  the  curtain  fell 
on  the  first  act. 

^ 

He  talked  on  indifferent  subjects  for  the 
rest  of  breakfast  time,  but  I felt  that  there 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  163 


was  something  on  the  boy’s  mind.  After 
breakfast  he  and  I walked  out  together, 
and  were  immediately  joined  by  his  father. 
As  Sir  Eric  came  up,  Rosamund  and  Lord 
George  Wilmyngton  passed  us  and  disap- 
peared in  the  direction  of  the  conserva- 
tories. 

Well,”  said  his  father,  “ what  is  it,  my 
boy?  ” 

‘‘Why,  look  here,  governor;  this  is 
rather  unexpected;  the  notice  of  my  quali- 
fication is  accompanied  by  a letter  from 
the  civil  service  commission  which  says 
that  a rather  good  appointment  has  sud- 
denly fallen  vacant  on  the  vice-regal 
staff  in  Bombay.  The  Duke  of  West- 
hampton  has  asked  for  it  for  me,  and  has 
got  it;  they  want  to  know  if  I will  take  it 
up  and  report  for  service  at  once.  It’s  a 
glorious  chance,  isn’t  it,  but  it  means  leav- 
ing you  and  home — and  all  of  you — so 
suddenly — what  shall  I do?  ” 

“ Why,  my  dear  boy,”  replied  Sir  Eric, 
as  he  finished  reading  the  letter,  “ there 


164  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


can’t  be  two  ideas  on  the  subject.  You 
have  one  of  the  finest  openings  any  young 
fellow  has  ever  had.  Of  course  we  must 
accept  it,  and  we  will  both  of  us  write  letters 
to  the  Duke,  thanking  him  for  his  inter- 
ference on  our  behalf.  I’ll  just  go  in  and 
talk  to  your  mother  about  it.”  And  the 
worthy  baronet  went  into  the  house. 

At  this  moment  Rosamund  came  run- 
ning back  to  the  house; — alone.  She  was 
passing  us  without  stopping,  when  Gervase 
said  to  her: — 

Do  you  want  to  know  what  my  letter 
from  the  Chief  said,  Rosa?” 

Thank  you,  I wouldn’t  pry  into  your 
private  affairs  for  the  world.  Besides,  I 
can’t  wait  now,  I want  some  scissors,  and 
Lord  George  is  waiting  for  me  in  the  con- 
servatory.” 

And  with  that  she  skipped  into  the 
house.  A look  of  intense  pain  came  over 
Gervase’s  face  as  he  looked  in  the  direction 
in  which  she  had  disappeared. 

“Go  after  her,”  said  I to  him,  “and  tell 
her  your  news.” 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  165 


^^No,  I don’t  see  why  I should;  if  she 
doesn’t  choose  to  wait,  she  can’t  want  to 
know.” 

^^But  Gervase,”  I insisted,  ‘‘surely  she 
has  a right  to  know;  you  won’t  let  her  suffer 
my  boy, — as  she  will  suffer — for  any  fool- 
ish mistake,  even  if  she  herself  has  com- 
mitted it.” 

A softer  light  came  into  his  eyes  and  he 
made  a half  movement  as  if  to  turn  and  go 
into  the  house  after  her,  when  suddenly 
she  tripped  out  by  another  window  further 
down  the  verandah  and  disappeared  once 
more  in  the  direction  of  the  conservatories. 
Gervase’s  face  hardened  again  as  he  re- 
plied to  my  remark:  — 

“ No,  Mr.  Cornell,  she  has  no  rights  you 
know  we  are  not  engaged  formally  to  one 
another — she  has  a loophole  of  escape;”  he 
added  bitterly,  “ and  if  she  chooses  to  take 
advantage  of  it  in  favor  of  Lord  George, 
you  don’t  suppose  that  I — I,  her  best 
friejid — would  seek  to  stand  in  her  way.” 

“ But,  my  dear  boy,”  I began,  but  he 


1 66  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


stopped  me  with  a little  gesture  of  his 
hand,  and  a little  proud  toss  of  his  head. 

Pardon  me,”  said  he,  if  I say,  Mr. 
Cornell,  that  the  subject  is  not  one  which  I 
am  in  a position  to  discuss.  Excuse  me, 
will  you?  I have  to  spend  the  day  in  mak- 
ing arrangements  for  my  departure. 

But  goodness  me,  you  are  surely  not  off 
in  such  a hurry  as  that.” 

I am  afraid  so,  the  Civil  Service  is  a 
kind  of  Pool  of  Bethesda,  you  know.  It  is 
seldom  troubled,  and  when  it  is,  the  man 
who  has  anyone  to  help  him  to  take  advan- 
tage of  the  opportunity,  is  the  man  who 
reaps  the  benefit — but  he  must  be  on  the 
spot  to  take  his  place  the  moment  he  has 
his  chance.  Au  revoirT' 

And  so  he  left  me. 

My  thoughts  were  none  of  the  pleasant- 
est as  I walked  down  to  the  river-side.  It 
was  hardly  a river,  perhaps;  more  properly 
speaking,  it  was  a rivulet  which  wandered 
through  the  grounds  and  disappeared  into 
the  Braybrooke  woods,  to  join  the  Avon 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  167 


somewhere  far  beyond  them.  When  I 
reached  it,  I found  Constance  Braybrooke 
and  a young  artist,  who  was  one  of  the 
house-party,  making  sketches  of  a bend 
where  the  pollard  willows  bowed  down  in 
homage  to  the  Naiads  of  the  stream,  as  an 
occasional  kingfisher  would  dart  out  of  the 
scented  rushes  in  pursuit  of  the  too  ven- 
turesome minnow. 

‘‘Where  is  everybody?”  I demanded 
comprehensively  of  Miss  Braybrooke. 

“Oh!”  replied  she,  “most  of  them  are 
off  to  Warwick  to  see  the  castle  and  its 
peacocks.  Eric  and  Professor  Whitridge 
have  started  for  Edgehill,  where  the  Pro- 
fessor, I believe,  fancies  he  will  find  Round- 
head  helmets  and  Cavalier  buckles  lying 
about;  Rosa  and  Lord  George  have  gone 
off  fishing  in  the  boat;  and  as  Gervase  isn’t 
with  Rosa — for  a wonder! — I can’t  tell  you 
where  he  is.” 

“ I thought  Gervase  was  going  fishing 
with  Miss  Gilbert,”  said  I. 

“So  did  I,”  replied  the  girl;  “but  they’ve 


1 68  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


had  a tiff,  I think.  They’re  always  having 
them,  though  the  effects  are  not  lasting.  I 
always  tell  them  that  one  of  these  days 
they’ll  hurt  one  another  in  real  earnest, 
and  not  get  over  it.” 

‘‘Heaven  forbid!”  I ejaculated  involun- 
tarily. 

And  then  I wandered  away  down  the 
side  of  the  stream  into  the  wood,  where  I 
lost  myself  till  lunch-time.  After  lunch  I 
settled  myself  in  the  Hbrary  with  Marcus 
Aurelius,  and  saw  no  more  of  Gervase — or 
indeed  of  any  of  them — till  dinner-time. 

The  party  had  assembled  in  the  drawing- 
room, and  dinner  had  been  announced, 
when  Lady  Braybrooke  suddenly  said: — 

“ Why,  where  are  Rosa  and  Lord 
George?  ” 

The  missing  couple  answered  the  ques- 
tion by  suddenly  appearing  in  our  midst, 
dressed  as  we  had  seen  them  last  at  break- 
fast. 

“We  just  looked  in,”  said  Miss  Gilbert, 
“to  say  ‘don’t  wait  dinner’;  we’ll  be  down 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  169 

directly;  we  lost  ourselves,  or  we  should 
have  been  home  hours  ago!  ” 

And  they  disappeared  again,  leaving  us 
bewildered  at  their  sudden  apparition. 
The  fish  had  hardly  been  served  when  the 
girl  appeared  en  toilette  and  as  she  took 
her  place  by  Gervase,  with  Lord  George 
Wilmyngton’s  empty  seat  on  the  other  side 
of  her,  broke  into  a voluble  explanation  of 
their  truancy.  They  had  sculled  down 
stream,  having  glorious  sport  all  the  way, 
and  it  was  long  past  lunch-time  before  they 
thought  of  turning  back.  Then  they  had 
missed  their  way  at  a fork  of  the  stream, 
had  taken  the  wrong  side,  and  had  finally 
landed  miles  away  from  home,  and  had 
walked  across  to  Braybrooke  Hall,  hungry, 
tired,  and  crowned  with  piscatorial  victory. 
As  the  girl  finished  her  recital.  Lord 
George  entered  and  took  his  seat,  and  as 
he  did  so  Gervase  broke  the  silence  for  the 
first  time  by  saying: — 

‘‘You  seem  to  have  had  a hard  day, 
Wilmyngton,  but  1 don’t  pity  you,  for  Rosa 


1 70  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son, 


keeps  one  up  to  the  mark  and  makes  the 
time  fly,  doesn’t  she?  ” 

“Yes,”  replied  his  lordship,  “I  congratu- 
late myself  on  our  mistake;  for  my  part  I 
never  passed  a pleasanter  day  in  my  life.” 

“Nor  I either,”  said  Rosamund,  a little 
defiantly,  I fancied. 

And  then  the  conversation  became  gen- 
eral. Rosamund  and  Gervase  talked  to- 
gether most  of  dinner  time,  but  it  was  not 
the  merry  confidential  chatter  that  they 
usually  kept  up  right  through  the  meal. 
At  dessert.  Sir  Eric  surprised  us  by  tapping 
the  table  with  the  handle  of  his  knife,  and 
saying  suddenly: — 

“ I think  we  ought  to  drink  Gervase’s 
health — he  is  on  the  high  road  to  fame  and 
fortune — but  I am  sorry  to  say  he  leaves 
us  to-morrow.” 

I saw  Rosamund  Gilbert  turn  white  for 
an  instant!  and  I saw  too  that  Gervase, 
glancing  quickly  in  her  direction,  also  noted 
her  change  of  color;  but  his  face  did  not 
soften  as  he  nodded  all  round  the  table  at 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son,  17 1 


the  various  members  of  the  party  as  they 
wished  him  ‘‘good  luck.” 

Rosamund  alone  did  not  participate  in 
the  toast;  she  merely  played  with  her  glass 
and  smiled  as  if  she  had  been  assisting  at 
a little  comedy;  only  I noticed,  as  she  lifted 
her  menu  to  look  at  it  by  way  of  a diver- 
sion, that  the  leaf  of  card-board  shook  as 
if  it  had  been  a living  leaf  in  an  autumn 
breeze.  Soon  after  the  ladies  had  retired, 
Gervase  rose  and  left  the  rest  of  us  alone, 
leaving  the  dining-room  by  the  window  and 
disappearing  across  the  lawn  into  the  black- 
ness of  the  night.  As  soon  as  Sir  Eric 
made  a move,  I followed  in  the  direction 
the  boy  had  taken,  and  presently  seeing  the 
tiny  p hare''  of  a lighted  cigarette  across 
the  rosery,  I strolled  round  the  grass  walks 
between  the  rose-beds  to  join  him.  As  I 
turned  a corner  and  approached  the  seat 
where  I knew  Gervase  was  sitting,  there 
was  a sudden  froufrou  of  skirts,  and  he 
was  joined  by  Miss  Rosamund,  who  ex- 
claimed:— 


172  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


Oh!  Peter,  why  didnt  you  tell  me  about 

it?*’ 

My  dear  child,”  replied  Gervase,  “I 
don’t  want  to  bore  you  with  my  private 
affairs,  and  you  don’t  care  about  knowing 
them — you  said  so  yourself  this  morning. 
I thought,  of  course,  you  knew  by  this  even- 
ing— I should  have  thought  that  this  would 
have  been  part  of  the  brilliant  flow  of  Lord 
George’s  conversation  during  eight  hours 
He  can  probably  tell  you  more  about  it 
than  I can,  as  it  is  his  father  who  has  cleared 
me  o ut  of  the  way  for  his  son,  by  getting  me 
this  appointment. — No,  my  girl,  there’s 
nothing  more  to  be  said  on  the  subject; 
do  you  object  to  my  cigarette?” 

There  was  an  instant’s  pause,  and  then 
the  girl  answered  icily:  No,  I don’t  mind 
tobacco,  but  it’s  too  cold  for  me  to  stay 
here.  No!  don’t  come  back  to  the  house 
with  me;  I’d  rather  go  alone — as  I came— 
and  you  must  have  a good  deal  to  think 
about.  Good-bye  for  the  present.” 

And  so  she  left  him. 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son,  173 


1 sprang  forward  and  exclaimed:  Go 

after  her,  Gervase,  remember  what  I said 
this  morning — you  are  making  a dreadful 
mistake  which  may  ruin  your  whole  lives; 
go  after  her,  my  boy.” 

“No,”  replied  he,  with  his  little  proud 
toss  of  the  head,  “ I refuse  to  cringe  to  any 
woman  that  treats  me  as  if  I were  a child 
of  seven.  She  has  had  eight  hours  of 
Wilmyngton, — let  her  get  the  full  par- 
ticulars from  him.” 

He  was  immovable,  and  presently  he  left 
me  and  I returned  to  the  drawing-room. 
Miss  Gilbert,  I was  told,  had  retired  to  her 
room,  as  she  was  tired  after  her  long  day 
in  the  open  air.  The  rest  of  the  party  were 
sitting  around — as  country-house  parties 
will  do — in  groups,  chatting  and  telling 
stories.  Gervase  and  his  father  were  clos- 
eted together,  going  over  papers  of  one 
kind  and  another  connected  with  his  ap- 
pointment, and  I did  not  see  them  again 
till  they  joined  us  in  the  smoking-room 
after  the  ladies  had  retired.  The  conver- 


174  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


sation  not  unnaturally  turned  on  Gervase’s 
departure,  which  was  to  take  place  early 
next  day,  the  nature  of  his  future  occupa- 
tions, and  the  date  of  his  probable  ' return. 
It  seemed  that  in  all  probability  four  or 
five  years  at  least  must  elapse  before  he 
saw  England  again.  He  spoke  of  his  ab- 
sence seriously  and  unreservedly,  but  with 
a quick  cheerfulness  that  showed  that  at 
any  rate  he  appreciated  the  opportunity 
that  had  been  offered  him  of  winning  his 
spurs  in  the  employ  of  his  government. 

Bright  hopes!  Happy  future!  Ah,  it  is 
good  to  be  a man!  Who  was  it  that  said 
that  the  next  best  thing  after  not  having 
been  born  at  all,  would  have  been  to  have 
been  born  a woman?  He  was  mad  or  spoke 
heedlessly.  Gervase  Braybrooke  was 
twenty,  handsome,  and  a gentleman  to  the 
backbone;  he  had  passed  all  the  examina- 
tions which  had  been  his  betes  mires 
throughout  his  school  days,  and  which  had 
earned  for  him  the  pity  of  his  female  rela- 
tions, whose  immunity  from  exams  he 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  175 


had  so  heartily  envied;  and  now,  by  the  ac- 
cident of  his  birth,  not  being  like  his  elder 
brother,  an  independent  gentleman,  the 
Duke  had  interested  himself  to  obtain  for 
the  younger  son  of  his  old  friend,  a staff 
appointment  of  importance  close  to  the  per- 
son of  Her  Majesty’s  Viceroy.  Laurels  to 
win,  a position  to  conquer,  a reputation  to 
earn,  and  glory  and  renown  in  the  future  a 
visible  goal.  Ah!  it  is  good  to  be  a man! 
And  Rosamund  Gilbert — matchless  speci- 
men of  womanhood,  as  he  of  his  own  sex, 
having  the  same, — nay,  on  the  ground  of 
her  prospective  motherhood  of  men  as 
good  as  he,  having  better  claims  on  human- 
ity at  large, — what  had  she  in  the  imme- 
diate future,  whilst  he  was  away  fighting 
the  battle  of  life  on  the  stage  of  govern- 
ment? Nothing!  She  had  only  to  sit  down 
and  wait — to  wait,  whilst  every  day  her 
beauty  became  less  fresh,  less  bright,  and 
her  enjoyment  of  life  became  less  keen  and 
less  minute.  Ah!  it  is  good  to  be  a man. 
Woman!  Woman!  we  bow  before  you, and 


176  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


kiss  your  hands  in  token  of  our  submission 
to  your  will;  often — very  often — our  des- 
tinies are  moulded  by  you;  sometimes  for 
evil,  but  more  often  for  good;  we  strive  to 
please  you  in  all  the  small  things  of  life, 
our  going-out  and  our  coming-in  depend 
upon  your  sovereign  will  and  pleasure;  the 
fashion  of  our  cravats  and  the  intonation 
of  our  voices;  but  how  is  it  when  the 
world  of  men  calls  us  to  fill  our  allotted 
space  in  the  universe  as  thinkers  and 
workers? — how  is  it  in  the  large  events  of 
life?  the  things  which  mould  the  destinies 
not  only  of  ourselves  as  individuals,  but  of 
Humanity?  Ah!  then! — these  things  are 
not  for  women’s  thoughts!  Get  you  to 
your  needle-work,  to  your  flower-garden, 
to  your  book  of  fairy  tales,  and  to  your  in- 
struments of  music.  Maybe,  when  we  have 
settled  the  matter,  we  may  speak  to  you  of 
it  again,  and  tell  you  what  we  have  done  for 
you.  Ah!  Ah!  it  is  to  be  a man! 

Next  morning  Rosamund  Gilbert  did  not 
come  down  to  breakfast.  She  was  not 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son,  177 


feeling  well,  Lady  Braybrooke  told  us,  but 
would  be  down  to  see  Gervase  off.  This 
was  a ceremony  which  took  place  at  eleven 
o’clock;  we  all  assembled  in  the  hall  and 
on  the  portico,  and  Gervase  walked  about 
seeing  to  the  final  embarkation  of  his  lug- 
gage and  talking  to  us  all  in  turn.  Rosa- 
mund was  there,  and  as  bright  and  cheer- 
ful as  any  of  us,  keeping  up  a constant 
ripple  of  chaff  and  repartee  with  “Peter,”  as 
he  went  from  group  to  group.  At  last  the 
supreme  moment  arrived.  Gervase  looked 
very  grey  and  determined,  but  got  through 
it  manfully.  He  said  “good-bye  ” to  Rosa- 
mund last — with  the  exception  of  his 
father,  who  saw  him  off  at  the  station — and 
when  he  reached  her,  he  took  both  her 
hands  in  his  and  raised  them  in  turn  to  his 
lips.  She  was  deathly  pale,  but  she  merely 
leaned  forward  and  said:  — 

“ Kiss  me,  Peter.” 

And  putting  one  hand  on  her  shoulder, 
he  leant  over  and  kissed  the  white  lips  that 
were  turned  up  to  his.  I believe  it  was  the 


178  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son, 


first  time  he  ever  kissed  her — and  the  last. 
Then,  with  a sparkle  in  his  eyes  and  a little 
husky  tone  in  his  voice,  he  turned,  and 
waving  his  hat  at  us  as  we  stood  on  the 
steps,  he  cried  out: — 

‘‘Good-bye,  all  of  you;  good-bye,  Bray- 
brooke!”  and  as  the  dog-cart  started  down 
the  drive,  he  turned  and  kissed  his  hand  to 
one  of  the  upper  windows  where  Lady  Bray- 
brooke  and  Constance  had  probably  sta- 
tioned themselves  to  see  the  last  of  him, 
and  to  shed  their  tears  together,  unseen  by 
the  merry  crowd  in  the  hall. 

When  the  dog-cart  had  disappeared,  and 
I turned  back  into  the  hall,  Rosamund  Gil- 
bert was  no  longer  there,  nor  did  I see  her 
again  until  after  lunch,  when  she  came 
down  looking  a trifle  pale  but  as  cheerful 
as  ever.  It  seemed  to  me  that  Lord  George 
Wilmyngton  was  in  better  spirits  this  after- 
noon than  I had  ever  seen  him  him  before. 
He  threw  himself  eagerly  into  every  plan 
that  was  proposed,  and  at  last,  when  his 
good-humor  had  communicated  itself  to  the 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  179 


rest  of  us,  and  had  dissipated,  to  some  ex- 
tent, the  cloud  which  Gervase’s  departure 
had  cast  over  us,  it  was  with  a strange  sink- 
ing of  the  heart  that  I saw  him  and  Rosa- 
mund stroll  away  down  to  the  hammock 
where  I had  seen  her  the  morning  after  my 
arrival,  and  arrange  themselves  to  chat,  she 
in  the  hammock  and  he  on  the  ground,  as 
Gervase  had  been  wont  to  sit.  I felt  some- 
how— stranger  though  I was — that  I had 
been  left  guardian  of  Gervase’s  interests, 
and  after  a while  I strolled  over  in  their 
direction.  As  I approached,  Rosamund 
cried  out: — 

“Oh,  Mr.  Cornell,  Lord  George  says 
Peter’s  going  to  be  away  for  five  years  at 
least;  it  isn’t  true,  is  .it?” 

“ Certainly  it  is  true.  Did  you  not  know 
it — did  he  not  tell  you?” 

“ No,  he  didn’t  choose  to  tell  me  anything 
about  his  plans,  and  I didn’t  choose  to  ask 
him — or  anybody  else.” 

“I  should  have  thought,”  remarked  Lord 
George  quickly,  but  meaningly,  “that  you 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son,  i8o 


would  have  been  the  first  person  he  would 
have  come  to  tell  all  about  them,  Miss 
Gilbert.” 

Gervase  had  something  else  to  do,”  said 
she,  flaming  up  immediately,  as  a woman 
always  does  if  any  man  presumes  to  agree 
with  her  in  abusing  another  of  his  sex, 

than  to  loaf  about  all  day  talking  to  us 
girls  about  things  we  shouldn’t  understand. 
You  don’t  quite  see.  Lord  George,  Gervase 
is  not  an  ‘ idle  man,’  and  has  something  to 
think  about  and  to  do  in  the  world  besides 
amuse  himself.  Help  me  out  of  the  ham- 
mock, please,  Mr.  Cornell,  I’m  going  to  see 
what  all  the  others  are  doing.” 

And  with  that  she  walked  slowly  across 
the  lawn  and  disappeared  into  the  house. 
In  the  drawing-room  before  dinner,  I said 
to  her: — 

“Now  that  Peter’s  gone,  the  rest  of  us 
have  a chance,  I suppose.  Will  you  waste 
half  an  hour  after  dinner  walking  with  an 
old  fellow  like  me?” 

“Of  course  I will,”  replied  she;  and  ac- 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  i8i 


cordingly,  as  soon  as  I could  get  away  after 
dessert,  I came  and  found  her  waiting  for 
me  in  the  drawing-room. 

We  went  out  together  into  the  early 
moonlight  and  walked  slowly  round  the 
lawn,  talking  seriously  as  we  went.  I for- 
get the  arguments  I used  in  begging  her 
not  to  think  ill  of  Gervase  for  having  left 
her  thus.  I pointed  out  that  the  faults  had 
been  on  both  sides,  that  he  had  good  rea- 
sons for  not  telling  her  of  his  departure  in 
the  presence  of  the  company  assembled  at 
breakfast  the  morning  before,  that  her  re- 
fusal to  listen  when  he  had  offered  her  his 
confidence  on  the  verandah  must  necessa- 
rily have  hurt  him,  and  that  the  wound  had 
hardly  been  healed  by  her  excursion  with 
Lord  George,  which  had  occupied  the 
whole  of  the  single,  only,  day  which  had 
elapsed  prior  to  his  departure.  I told  her 
that  I thought  he  had  had  fair  reason  for 
what  he  had  said  in  the  evening  in  the 
rose-garden,  and  I begged  her  to  write  him 
a letter  at  once  to  the  India  Office,  explain- 


1 82  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


ing  all  the  circumstances  of  the  case,  and 
asking  his  forgiveness  for  her  fault  whilst 
she  freely  pardoned  his.  She  met  all  my 
reasoning  with  a woman’s  unreasonable 
but  unanswerable  objections,  and  finally,  as 
we  drew  near  the  drawing-room  windows 
for  the  last  time,  she  said: 

No,  Mr.  Cornell,  it  is  of  no  use;  it  is 
not  as  if  we  were  engaged  to  one  another. 
If  we  had  been,  he  would  not  have  treated 
me — and  possibly  I should  not  have  treated 
him — in  such  a manner.  I had  no  idea  of 
the  contents  of  his  letter,  and  what  I said 
at  breakfast  was  merely  angry  chaff  at  his 
having  mortified  me  before  all  the  others, 
I was  angry,  but  I would  have  given  any- 
thing not  to  have  been  so  horrid — but  then 
— when  I went  after  him — just  fancy  my  do- 
ing such  a thing — in  the  rose-garden,  he 
was  cruel  and  unkind,  and  it  is  he  who 
ought  to  ask  me  to  forgive  him.  I will  not 
write  to  him  unless  he  writes  to  me — and 
perhaps  not  then.  He  has  his  way  to  make 
in  the  world— he  doesn’t  want  to  be 


The  Storys  of  a Younger  Son.  183 


hampered  by  me  and  my  feelings.  It  was 
all  very  well  when  he  had  nothing  to  do;  I 
was  all  very  well  to  amuse  an  idle  hour  or 
two,  but  you  will  see  how  it  is — now  his  life 
is  full,  how  much  shall  /hear  of  him?  A mes- 
sage in  a letter  to  his  mother,  a newspaper 
paragraph  if  he  distinguishes  himself — as  of 
course  he  will — and  that  will  be  enough 
for  Rosamund  Gilbert.  Well,  Fm  not  the 
first  woman  who  has  been  in  my  position, 
Mr.  Cornell — don’t  persuade  me  any 
more,  my  mind  is  quite  made  up.  You  are 
very  good  to  have  interested  yourself  in 
my  affairs,  and  now  I must  go  in,  so  au  re- 
voir  Mr.  Cornell,  au  revoir!' 

I was  at  Braybrooke  for  another  fort- 
night and  my  visit  was  drawing  to  a close. 

The  evening  before  my  departure  I was 
sitting  next  to  Miss  Gilbert  at  dinner. 
Gervase  Braybrooke  had  left  London  for 
Bombay  the  day  before,  and  we  all  felt  a 
little  depressed  by  our  sympathy  with  Sir 
Eric  and  Lady  Braybrooke.  Tov/ards  the 
end  of  dinner  I said  to  her: — 


184  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son, 


Did  you  write  to  him?” 

“ No,”  replied  she. 

“ He  has  not  written  to  you?” 

^^No.” 

Nor  sent  any  message?” 

“ He  only  asked  Lady  Braybrooke  how.  I 
was,  and  said  he  hoped  that  if  ever  I could 
find  a moment  when  I was  not  fishing  and 
going  long  walks,  I would  remember  his 
existence  and  write  him  a line  to  tell  him 
what  l am  doing.” 

I returned  to  town  next  day. 

III. 

Three  years  passed  during  which  I 
often  met  the  Braybrookes  and  Miss  Gil- 
bert in  London  society.  She  never  asked 
after  Gervase,  and  it  seemed  strange  to  me 
that  she  did  not,  for  the  boy  distin- 
guished himself,  as  we  all  expected  he 
would,  and  many  of  the  daily  and  society 
papers  spoke  periodically  of  the  good  ser- 
vice he  was  doing  his  government  as  the 
right-hand  man  of  the  Viceroy,  a position 


,Thc  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  185 

he  had  acquired,  notwithstanding  his  youth, 
by  the  charm  of  his  manner  and  by  his 
moral  character,  as  much  as  by  the  energy 
and  enthusiasm  with  which  he  entered  into 
his  work.  Still,  Miss  Gilbert  knew  that  I 
corresponded  with  him,  for  I told  her  so. 
Only  once,  however,  had  I led  the  conver- 
sation in  the  direction  of  Gervase  and  his 
work,  and  the  girl  had  looked  bored  and 
uninterested,  and  finally  had  rather  point- 
edly changed  the  conversation.  I did  not 
recur  to  the  subject. 

So  beautiful  a woman  as  Rosamund 
Gilbert  suffered  naturally  from  a super- 
fluity rather  than  from  a lack  of  cavaliers, 
and  whether  at  afternoon  receptions,  in  the 
Park,  at  Hurlingham,  or  at  ‘‘  crushes,  ” the 
man  who  principally  monopolized  the  at- 
tention of  Miss  Gilbert  was  generally  a 
marked  individual.  Of  all  her  white  slaves, 
however,  none  was  more  assiduous  in  his 
attentions  or  more  constant  in  his  attend- 
ance than  Lord  George  Wilrnyngton;  and 
really,  when  I think  about  it  calmly,  I do 


1 86  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


not  blame  Rosamund  for  her  toleration  of 
his  unflagging  service.  Setting  aside  his 
title  and  his  wealth,  Lord  George  was  an 
English  gentleman  in  the  loftiest  accepta- 
tion of  the  term;  he  was  well-built  and 
handsome,  not  troubled  by  a superfluity  of 
brains — in  fact  Rosamund  once  confessed 
to  me  that  she  found  him  dull — but  then 
he  was  supremely  “good  form,  ” and  loved 
her  honestly  and  humbly.  Therefore, 
though  it  pained  me  terribly,  for  I was 
really  fond  of  Gervase — I was  hardly  sur- 
prised when  I read  one  day  in  the  Morn- 
ing  Post  that  “ a marriage  had  been  ar- 
ranged between  Lord  George  Wilmyngton, 
third  son  of  the  Duke  of  Westhampton, 
and  Rosamund,  daughter  of  the  late 
Erskine  Gilbert,  Esquire,  and  niece  of  Sir 
Eric  Braybrooke,  Batf  of  Braybrooke 
Hall,  Warwickshire.”  Three  days  after- 
wards the  Indian  mail  brought  a letter 
from  Gervase  announcing  his  intention  of 
applying  for  leave,  and  of  coming  home 
the  following  summer  for  a few  months. 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son,  187 


I wrote  back,  warmly  seconding  his  prop- 
osition, but  in  the  same  letter  I sent  him 
the  cutting  from  the  Tost,  and  a little  ac- 
count of  the  engaged  couple  which  I 
hoped  would  soften  the  blow  to  him — if 
blow  it  was  to  be.  I hoped  my  letter 
would  get  to  him  before  the  account  that 
was  bound  to  reach  him  from  home — and 
I believe  it  did.  Meantime,  whilst  the 
preparations  for  the  “ Marriage  in  High 
Life  ” proceeded,  his  answer  to  my  letter 
came  swiftly  across  the  hemisphere  that 
divided  us.  " 

The  young  people  had  known  one  an- 
other for  years,  so  there  was  no  reason  why 
the  marriage  should  be  postponed,  and 
Gervase's  answer  arrived  about  a week  be- 
fore it  was  to  take  place.  It  was  short  and 
to  the  point. 

His  plans  had  undergone  a change  since 
writing  last.  His  Excellency  had  offered 
to  send  him  on  a mission  of  importance  to 
Mandalay,  and  he  had  accepted  the  offer. 
It  was  a great  chance  for  so  young  a man, 


1 88  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


and  he  had  determined  to  take  advantage 
of  it.  He  proposed  to  postpone  his  return 
for  a further  period  of  three  years.  By 
the  time  his  letter  reached  me  he  was 
probably  on  his  way.  to  his  post— if  he 
was  not  already  there. 

And  a week  after  that  Rosamund  Gil- 
bert became  Lady  George  Wilmyngton. 

IV. 

What  is  it  that  Omar  the  Persian  Tent- 
maker  says  of  Time? 

The  moving  finger  writes,  and  having 
writ,  moves  on!”  A hiatus  of  four  years 
occurred  in  my  story,  and  Time,  as  is  his 
wont,  had  been  quietly  at  work,  making 
changes  in  our  lives.  Personally,  I had 
stepped  from  the  bar  to  the  bench,  and  ex- 
changed the  curly  wig  of  the  Queen’s 
Counsel  for  the  fuzzy  head-gear  of  the 
Judge.  Lord  and  Lady  George  Wilmyngton 
in  their  beautiful  house  in  Picadilly,  were 
among  the  most  prominent  members  of 
London  society.  A terrible  tragedy- — the 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  189 


simultaneous  death  in  a railway  accident  of 
Sir  Eric  Braybrooke  and  his  eldest  son — 
had  caused  the  baronetcy  to  devolve  on 
Gervase,  and  Sir  Gervase  Braybrooke  of 
Braybrooke  Hall,  Warwickshire,  was  one  of 
the  most  prominent  actors  on  the  stage  o^ 
Indian  politics.  He  had  accomplished  his 
mission  in  Mandalay  in  a manner  which 
had  absolutely  astonished  the  India  office; 
He  had  been  publicly  complimented  by 
both  Houses  of  Parliament,  and  had  as- 
cended from  the  Companionship,  to  the 
Knight-Commandership  of  the  Star  of  In- 
dia; and  even  before  he  became  Sir  Ger- 
vase Braybrooke,  Bart,  he  was  already  Sir 
Gervase  Braybrooke,  K.  C.  S.  I.,  and  Eng- 
land looked  forward  to  a brilliant  future 
career  for  him,  as  Her  Majesty’s  Viceroy  in 
India.  His  sister  Constance  had  married, 
and  was  the  proud  mother  of  a baby-boy 
and  of  a not-quite-so-baby  girl,  and  Lady 
Braybrooke  had  gone  to  live  permanently 
in  strict  retirement  in  Braybrooke  Hall. 

One  evening  I was  seated  in  my  study, 


190  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


busy  revising  the  proof-sheets  of  a new 
edition  of  my  work  on  The  Practice  of  the 
Court  of  Appeal,”  when  my  servant  came 
and  told  me  that  a gentleman  wished  to  see 
me  who  had  refused  to  give  his  name,  and 
was  waiting  in  the  drawing-room.  I was 
somewhat  annoyed  at  being  disturbed,  but 
came  down  mmediately  and  found  await- 
ing me  a tall,  bronzed,  and  distinguished- 
looking  man,  with  rather  grizzled  blond 
hair,  and  an  erect  commanding  figure.  I 
bowed,  and  asked  him  to  be  seated. 

“What!”  exclaimed  Gervase — for  it  was 
he — “am  I so  changed  in  seven  years  that 
you  don’t  recognize  me?” 

Ah!  but  how  glad  I was  to  see  him!  and 
how  I abused  him  for  not  having  told  me 
that  he  was  coming.  He  had  arrived  the 
evening  before  and  had  determined  to  sur- 
prise me  by  swooping  down  upon  me  with- 
out a word  of  warning?  I carried  him 
away  up  to  my  sarictum  sanctorufn  and  after 
reviling  him  for  having  dined  alone  at  the 
club,  set  him  down  in  an  arm-chair  oppo- 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  19 1 


site  me,  and  for  an  hour  we  chatted  and 
laughed  like  school-boys,  he,  the  rising 
young  Indian  civilian  whose  habitual  grav- 
ity was  far  beyond  his  years,  and  I,  the 
grave  Lord  Justice  of  Her  Majesty’s  Su- 
preme Court  of  Judicature,  old  enough  to 
be  his  father.  I told  him  all  the  news  that 
I had  not  included  in  my  letters  to  him,  and 
he  gave  me  an  outline  of  his  adventures.  I 
told  him  all  I knew  of  Rosamund  Wilmyng- 
ton  and  her  husband,  and  he  listened  and 
asked  questions  in  the  calm  and  indifferent 
manner  of  a man  who  is  dimly  recalling 
events  of  his  boyhood — events  which  seemed 
to  him  to  be  of  paramount  importance 
when  they  occurred,  and  who  feels  a mild 
surprise  at  the  recollection  of  the  effect 
they  had  upon  him  in  those  half-forgotten 
time’s.  At  last  he  said,  in  a reflective  and 
half-amused  tone  of  voice: — 

^AVell,  well,  I know  that  I left  Braybrooke, 
and  left  England  maddened,  miserable,  and 
sore  at  heart,  and  it  took  the  whole  of  the 
first  year  that  I never  heard  from  her,  to 


192  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


realize  that  she  had  never  really  cared 
about  me.  It  took  the  whole  of  the  second 
year  to  accustom  myself  to  the  idea  that 
the  brilliant  exquisite  future  I had  mapped 
out  for  myself  with  her,  was  nothing  but  a 
boyish  dream,  and  even  during  the  third 
year,  when  I had  applied  for  leave  and  was 
coming  home,  I knew  that  my  love  was  not 
quite  dead,  and  I used  sometimes,  when  I 
sat  in  the  Gardens  at  Bombay  liste  ing  to 
the  band  after  dinner,  to  imagine  myself 
back  in  the  old  home,  riding  through  the 
Braybrooke  Woods  upon  Dynamite,  with 
her  at  my  side,  touching  an  almost  forgot- 
ten chord,  and  offering  her  a devotion 
which  was  no  longer  an  outcome  of  the  flat- 
tered vanity  of  a school-boy.  But  then — 
your  letter  came; — I knew  that  it  was  all 
over,  and  that  I had  only  my  work  out 
there  to  fill  the  remainder  of  my  life,  and  I 
gave  up  my  leave  when  Lord  B.  offered  me 
the  residency  at  Mandalay,  and  have  stifled 
the  thought  of  her  ever  since.  But  not- 
withstanding all  this.  I’ve  sometimes 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son,  193 


vaguely  wondered  what  she  has  grown  to 
be — and  now  that  I am  in  the  old  country 
again,  I should  like  to  see  Rosamund  Gil- 
bert again.  Egad!  I wonder  whether  she 
would  remember  me!” 

Why,  my  dear  fellow,”  I replied,  if 
you  really  have  left  off  caring  about  her, 
and  if  you  really  want  to  see  her  again, 
you  can  do  so  this  very  moment  if  you  like. 
Mrs.  Francis  Jeune  is  giving  one  of  her 
historic  parties  to-night,  and  we  can  look  in 
for  half  an  hour  and  then  stroll  down  to 
the  club.  Lord  George  and  she  are  certain 
to  be  there;  all  Diplomacy  and  all  fashion- 
able Bohemia  meet  there  as  regularly  as 
clock-work,  and  though  I hadn't  intended 
to  go  myself.  Ell  take  you  there  with 
pleasure,  and  Mrs.  Jeune  will  be  delighted 
to  see  you,  both  on  your  own  account  and 
mine.  I’ll  call  at  Claridge’s  for  you  in 
half  an  hour,  and  we’ll  go  together.” 

And  so  it  was  arranged.  When  I stopped 
my  cab  at  Claridge’s  Hotel  for  him,  I found 
him  ready  for  me,  and  certainly  a more  dis- 


194  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


tinguished-looking  man  I have  never  seen, 
than  Sir  Gervase  Braybrooke,  with  the  Star 
of  India  on  his  dress  coat,  and  the  jewel  of 
the  order  suspended  by  its  ribbon  beneath 
his  white  cravat. 

Our  hostess  cordially  extended  to  him 
the  welcome  that  she  always  had  ready  for 
any  living  creature  whose  position  and 
attainments  rendered  him  worthy  to  be- 
come a member  of  the  brilliant  throng  that 
habitually  circulated  from  room  to  room  in 
her  house  in  Harley  street;  and  almost  the 
first  person  I saw  as  we  entered  the  salon., 
was  Lady  George  Wilmyngton.  She  was 
listening  to  Oscar  Wilde’s  latest  paradoxi- 
cal axiom  when  1 touched  her  shoulder  and 
said: — 

‘^Lady  George,  I have  brought  an  old 
friend  to  claim  acquaintance  with  you.” 

She  turned  immediately,  and,  directing 
one  searching  look  at  the  tall  figure  stand- 
ing by  my  side,  flushed  crimson,  then 
turned  a shade  paler  than  she  had  been  be- 
fore, put  out  both  hands  and  exclaimed  in 
a voice  that  was  almost  strangled: — 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  195 


‘‘Why,  Peter!’* 

After  that,  a few  commonplace  words  of 
surprise  and  satisfaction  on  both  sides,  and 
then  Gervase  offering  her  his  arm,  said: — 

“ Let  us  find  a comparatively  quiet  place 
where  we  can  talk.” 

As  they  made  their  way  to  one  of  the 
smaller  rooms,  they  passed  Lord  George, 
who  was  conversing  with  a member  of  the 
diplomatic  corps  in  the  passage.  As  they 
went  by  he  turned  an  enquiring  glance  on 
his  wife’s  escort,  and  she,  looking  up  at 
him,  said:  — 

“ Don’t  you  remember  Gervase  Bray- 
brooke?  Come  into  the  little  room  with  us, 
we  are  going  to  talk  about  old  times.” 

The  two  men  greeted  one  anothej 
warmly,  and  half  an  hour  afterwards,  as  I 
was  gravitating  in  the  direction  of  sand- 
wiches and  sherry  with  the  Persian  minis- 
ter, I saw  the  three  .sitting  together  en- 
gaged in  an  animated  confabulation. 

Gervase  Braybrooke  and  I,  left  together. 
We  walked  almost  in  silence  as  far  as  Ox- 
ford street,  and  then  he  said: — 


196  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son, 


If  you’ll  excuse  me,  Sir  William,  I 
won’t  come  down  to  the  club;  I’ve  had  a 
hard  day  of  it,  and  I think  I’ll  get  home 
and  turn  in.  I’ll  come  and  see  you  again 
in  a day  or  two. 

And  so  he  left  me.  A few  days  after- 
wards he  came  down  to  the  Royal  Courts 
of  Justice  late  in  the  afternoon,  and  when 
the  court  rose  he  drove  home  with  me.  I 
couldn’t  get  him  to  stay  to  dinner.  He 
was  dining  at  Wilmyngton  House. 

V. 

Three  or  four  days  later  I was  dining 
with  Lord  George  Wilmyngton  and  his 
wife,  a partie  carree  of  which  Gervase  was 
the  remaining  member.  He  seemed  quite 
at  home — quite  one  of  the  family — and, 
knowing  as  much  as  I did  of  the  earlier  re- 
lations of  Gervase  Braybrooke  and  Rosa- 
mund Wilmyngton,  the  easy  familiarity 
which  appeared  to  exist  between  them  at 
this  time  perplexed  me.  Knowing  Lady 
George  to  be  a woman  of  the  most  ex- 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  197 


quisite  delicacy  of  mind  and  of  the  most 
unimpeachable  refinement,  and  knowing 
Sir  Gervase  to  be  the  very  pink  and 
pattern  of  perfect  gentlemanly  feeling 
and  honor,  I felt  no  uneasiness  on  the  sub- 
ject; but  it  seemed  odd,  after  what  he 
had  told  me  the  first  evening  after  his 
return,  that  he  could  fall  immediately 
into  so  apparently  close  a friendship — 
just  as  of  yore — with  his  old  sweetheart. 
When  we  left  the  house  on  the  evening  of 
which  I am  speaking,  I said  something  to 
this  effect,  and  asked  him  if  Lady  George 
had  referred  at  all  to  the  past. 

Not  a word,”  replied  he;  we  talk  con- 
tinually of  the  old  days  at  Braybrooke,  of 
the  place  itself,  and  of  our  rambles  and  rides 
together;  but  of  our  parting,  never.  She 
does  not  wish  it,  nor  do  I — all  that  is  at  an 
end  henceforth  and  forever.  I referred 
once  to  my  last  day  at  Braybrooke,  but  she 
silenced  me  coldly  and  peremptorily,  and  I 
was  glad  she  did  ‘so,  she  evideny  does 
not  look  upon  her  conduct  in  the  light  that  I 


198  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son, 


did,  and  do,  and  it  is  perhaps  as  well.  It 
need  not  interfere  with  our  friendship, 
which  is  still  what  it  always  was.  Only 
those  two  days  are  out  of  our  lives,  and  are 
as  if  we  had  never  lived  them. 

Then  he  told  me  that  during  the  day  he 
had  finished  his  official  business  at  the  In- 
dia office  for  the  present,  and  that  early 
next  morning  he  should  start  for  Warwick- 
shire to  see  his  mother. 

At  the  end  of  a fortnight  he  was  back 
in  town  again.  I did  not  see  him  for  a 
day  or  two,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  he 
told  me  that  his  plans  were  uncertain — that 
he  did  not  know  how  long  he  should  re- 
main away  from  his  post  in  India,  and  that 
his  mother  would  most  probably  remain  at 
Braybrooke  for  the  rest  of  her  life.  He 
did  not  suppose  that  he  would  ever  marry 
— the  baronetcy  was  not  restricted  in  its 
descent,  and  would  devolve  upon  his 
cousin.  At  present — for  the  season  at  any 
rate — he  should  remain  in  London. 

I knew  that  there  was  nothing  to  feel 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  199 


uneasy  about,  but  there  was  an  uncertainty, 
a restlessness  about  Sir  Gervase  that  I did 
not  like.  He  seemed  to  be  preoccupied, 
without  having  anything  in  particular  on 
his  mind,  and  I began  to  feel  oppressed  by 
an  idea  that  his  thoughts  were  beginning  ta 
run — oh!  the  pity  of  it! — on  the  migh 
have  been." 

One  evening  I was  sitting  at  work — as 
on  that  other  occasion — when  he  was  an- 
nounced. The  moment  he  came  in,  I knew 
that  there  was  something  wrong,  that  some- 
thing had  happened.  Appearances  were 
not  deceptive. 

“ I have  been  with  Lady  George  Wil- 
myngton  this  afternoon,"  began  he,  ‘‘and 
we  have  had  a talk  over  those  two  days." 

“Great  Heaven!"  thought  I,  “what  is  he 
going  to  tell  me? " 

“It  was  all  a dreadful  mistake.  I mis- 
understood her,  and  she  misunderstood  me; 
she  loved  me  as  dearly  as  I loved  her,  only 
she  was  too  proud  to  confess  it,  and  I was 
to  poor  to  ask  it  of  her." 


200  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


‘‘Go  on.’' 

If  I had  written  from  London,  even 
from  India,  it  would  have  been  all  right, 
but  like  an  idiot  I thought  she  was  in  love 
with  Lord  George,  and  she  imagined  that 
I thought  of  nothing  but  my  future — my 
brilliant  future!  Good  God!  how  dearly  I 
have  bought  it!” 

And  you  have  explained  these  things 
to  one  another?” 

^‘Yes.” 

^‘Gervase,”  I said  very  gravely,  ^^I  know 
you  too  well  for  a thought  of  the  possibility 
of  a dishonorable  action  on  your  part  ever 
to  cross  my  mind;  but  with  all  your  knowl- 
edge of  the  world  and  with  an  experience 
of  life  such  as  few  men  have  had  at  your 
age,  you  must  realize  that  your  position 
with  regard  to  Lord  George  Wilmyngton’s 
wife  is  a very  difficult  and  a very  strained 
one.  What  are  you  going  to  do?” 

‘‘Nothing!”  said  he,  raising  from  his 
chair  to  pace  backwards  and  forwards 
across  the  room.  “Rosamund  and  I have 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  201 


talked  the  matter  over  calmly,  deliberately, 
dispassionately.  We  are  both  confident  of 
ourselves  and  of  one  another,  and  you  may 
be  sure  that  no  words  of  mine  to  her  shall 
ever  be  such  as  her  husband  might  not 
willingly  hear.  Our  lives  have  been  spoilt 
by  a cruel  mistake,  but  though  she  is  Wil- 
myngton’s  wife,  she  shall  never  cease  to  be 
the  dearest  friend  I have  ever  had,  or  shall 
evej  have,  in  the  world.” 

I felt  that  I was  talking  to  a person  very, 
very  different  to  the  boy  of  seven  years  ago, 
and  I said  but  little  more  that  evening. 
From  that  time  onward  Sir  Gervase  became 
Lady  Wilmyngton’s  most  constant  atten- 
dant— whether  at  home  or  abroad.  Lord 
George  knew  very  well  that  his  honor  was 
in  no  sense  in  danger,  and  upon  terms  of 
the  most  intimate  friendship  the  house  in 
Picadilly became  an  ideal  ^'‘menage  a trois.'* 
It  was  towards  the  end  of  the  seavSon  that, 
'one  evening  at  a reception  at  the  Foreign 
Office,  I was  chatting  with  one  of  the  Col- 
onial Secretaries  of  State,  when  Lady 
George  passed  on  Gervase’s  arm. 


202  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


“Do  you  know  Braybrooke?”  asked  the 
Secretary. 

“Very  intimately/’  said  I. 

“ Then,  if  you  have  any  influence  with 
him,  get  him  back  to  India  as  fast  as  you 
can.  That’s  a most  rising  young  civilian 
being  checked  in  the  last  round  of  a bril- 
liant career.  What  does  he  want  dangling 
after  Lady  George  through  a London 
season,  when  Theebaw  is  stirring  himself 
up  to  give  us  trouble  almost  within  walking 
distance  of  his  post  out  there?  I’m  inter- 
ested in  that  young  man,  Cornell,  and  I 
don’t  like  the  look  of  it — I don’t  like  the 
look  of  it.” 

No  more  did  1.  And  I determined  to 
have  a talk  with  Gervase  about  it.  The 
end  of  the  season  was  at  hand,  the  festivi- 
ties of  the  gay  world  were  culminating  in 
Goodwood,  and  already  here  and  there 
one  could  see  great  houses  whence  the 
glory  was  departed  until  next  season,  and 
whose  carefully  closed  and  guarded  win- 
dows announced  the  absence  of  “ the 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son,  203 


family/'  It  was  in  the  last  days  of  July 
that  Gervase  came  to  take  a little  quiet 
dinner  with  me  in  my  bachelor  house  in 
Eaton  Place.  During  dinner  I said  to 
him  : 

‘‘  I suppose  you  will  spend  August  with 
her  ladyship  at  Braybrooke?" 

“Well,  no,"  he  replied,  “ I shall  go  there 
later.  Tve  promised  to  go  down  to  the’ 
Wilmyngtons  for  August." 

“ Oh!" 

After  dinner,  when  the  conversation  had 
taken  the  confidential  tone  imparted  by 
arm-chairs  and  the  incense  of  “ Henry 
Clays,"  I remarked  in  the  most  offhand 
manner  in  the  world: 

“And  when  do  you  return  to  India?" 

“ Never;"  answered  he. 

“Good  God!  my  dear  fellow,  what  do 
you  mean?" 

“Well,"  said  he,  “ I’ve  thought  it  all 
over,  and  that’s  my  decision.  I didn’t  talk 
to  you  about  it.  Sir  William,  because  I 
knew  you’d  argue  the  matter,  and  my  mind 


204  Story  of  a You7iger  Son. 


was  made  up.  I sent  in  my  papers  some 
weeks  ago,  and  by  this  time  my  successor 
is  on  his  way  out.  They  raised  no  end  of 
a dust  about  it  at  the  India  Office;  in  fact, 
they  refused  to  gazette  my  resignation 
until  the  other  day,  and  even  the  Prince 
had  a talk  to  me  about  it  at  Ascot,  but  I 
gave  him  my  reasons,  and  H.R.H.  was 
satisfied  and  didn’t  press  the  point.  You 
see,  I should  never  have  gone  into  the 
Indian  Civil  Service  if  I had  not  been  the 
governor’s  younger  son;  and  now  that  the 
poor  old  gentleman  and  Eric  are  both 
gone,  throwing  the  baronetcy  on  my 
shoulders,  I feel  in  a manner  bound  to 
adopt  the  life  which  I should  have  taken 
up  if  I had  been  born  heir  to  the  title  and 
estates; — only  that  I should  have  married 
Rosamund  Gilbert.  Braybrooke  requires  a 
master  to  look  after  it,  and  my  mother  is 
an  old  lady  now.  Sir  William,  my  father’s 
and  brother’s  awful  deaths  aged  her  ter- 
ribly, and  Con’s  marriage  has  left  her  all 
alone  in  the  world.  So  I shall  keep  my 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  205 


rooms  at  the  Albany  and  spend  my  time 
between  them  and  Braybrooke;  there’s 
plenty  to  occupy  my  time  here.  Of  course 
I know  that  I’m  giving  up  a lot  out  in  the 
Empire,  and  that  many  people  who  don’t 
know  my  reasons  will  blame  me;  but  you 
know  them,  and  you  know  that  they  are 
valid,  don’t  you?” 

“ Yes,”  I replied,  “ I know  them,  though 
you  have  kept  silence  as  to  the  principal 
one.  Now,  don’t  answer  me  yet.  As  a 
Lord  Justice  I am  accustomed  to  formulat- 
ing cases  with  brutal  precision,  and  your 
case  is  this:  You — Sir  Gervase  Braybrooke, 
Baronet,  Knight  Commander  of  the  Star 
of  India,  Her  Majesty’s  Commissioner  for 
the  district  of  Bowghranee,  in  the  province 
of  Bengal,  almost  at  the  head  of  your  pro- 
fession at  the  age  of  eight-and-twenty, 
prospective  Viceroy  of  the  Empire  of  India, 
and  sure  of  a peerage — have  thrown  all 
this  to  the  winds  and  relegated  yourself  to 
absolute  insignificance  because  you  are  in 
love  with  the  wife  of  an  old  school  chum,” 


2o6  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son, 


the  son  of  the  man  to  whom  you  owe  your 
position.  I am  old  enough  to  be  your 
father,  I have  watched  your  career  as  if 
you  were  my  son,  for  I’m  very  fond  of  you, 
my  boy,  and  I have  been  your  father’s  in- 
timate friend  since  we  were  both  fourteen 
and  went  to  Eton  together.  Therefore  I 
am  the  only  living  man  who  has  a right  to 
hold  the  mirror  for  you  to  look  at  yourself 
in  it.  How  do  you  like  the  picture?” 

He  rose  from  his  chair  and  walked  to 
the  window.  For  a few  moments  he  stood 
there  looking  out  into  the  late  summer 
twilight,  at  the  people  passing  underneath 
in  the  street,  twisting  up  his  slightly  grizzled 
moustache.  At  last  he  turned,  and  coming 
back,  dropped  once  more  into  his  chair 
opposite  me. 

‘‘You  have  stated  the  case  with  startling 
truth,”  said  he,  “ but  there  is  nothing  more 
to  be  said  about  it.  The  thing  is  done — 
finally,  irrevocably.  But  don’t  imagine  that 
I am  going  to  spoil  her  life  with  my  own. 
We  are  as  good  friends  to-day  as  we  were 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  207 


in  the  old  time  at  Braybrooke.  Lord 
George,  thank  God,  appreciates  his  wife  at 
her  true  value,  and  trusts  her  as  implicitly 
as  she  and  I trust  one  another.  Don’t  be 
uneasy  about  us,  old  friend.  This  is  my 
life.  I led  off  with  a terrible  mistake,  the 
past  has  been  bitter,  but  the  present  makes 
amends  for  it  all,  and  I have  no  fear  for 
the  future.” 

The  future!  There  was  a certain  grim 
humor  in  the  way  he  spoke,  but  there  was 
nothing  to  be  gained  by  worrying  him 
about  it. 

I changed  the  conversation. 

VI. 

How  unimportant  the  things  which  vitally 
concern  ourselves  seem  to  other  people! 
It  did  not  seem  in  the  least  to  call  for 
comment  from  the  world  that  wherever 
Lady  George  Wilmyngton  and  her  husband 
were  to  be  seen.  Sir  Gervase  Braybrooke 
was  sure  to  be  found  not  far  off.  Few  re- 
membered— and  they  only  at  rare  intervals, 


2o8  The  Story  of  a Youjiger  Son. 


when  he  appeared  decorated  with  the  star 
and  collar  of  the  order — that  the  distin- 
guished-looking young  man  was  the  hero 
of  the  Bowghranee  insurrection.  More 
than  a year  had  passed  since  the  conversa- 
tion I have  just  recorded  took  place  in  my 
dining-room,  when,  one  November  evening^ 
on  my  return  from  Court,  I found  a note 
from  Gervase  asking  me  if  I could  spare 
him  the  evening,  and  apologizing  for  not 
asking  me  to  come  to  dinner.  I had  a 
vague,  uneasy  feeling  that  something  was 
wrong,  and  I arrived  at  the  Albany  at 
about  nine. 

Gervase  was  sitting  in  a low  arm-chair 
in  front  of  the  fire.  On  a little  table  beside 
him  stood  a pile  of  letters,  which  he  was 
reading  and  burning  as  he  read  them  one- 
by-one.  A cold  spasm  of  apprehension 
seized  me,  as  I remarked  cheerily:  — 

‘‘Hullo!  boy;  burning  love  letters?’' 

“ Yes;  this  kind  of  love  letter: — ‘ Dear 
Peter,  Come  and  dine  with  us  to-night; 
seven  punctually.  Yours,  Rosamund.’ 


The  Story  of  a Youjiger  Son.  209 


Here’s  another.  ^ Dear  Peter:  George 
has  got  a box  for  “Frou-Frou”  to-night; 
will  you  come?  Yours,  Rosa.’  Nothing 
more  than  that,  Sir  William,  but  they  are 
the  only  kind  of  love  letters  I have  ever 
received.”  And  as  he  spoke  he  flung  the 
two  notes  he  had  read  into  the  flames. 

“ My  dear  Gervase,  for  Heaven’s  sake 
what  has  happened?  ” 

“Oh!  Nothing  much — nothing  much. 
Fm  only  burning  records  of  the  past,  and 
their  ashes  are  the  Ashes  of  the  Future — 
mine  and  hers.  Ashes — cf  the  Future  we 
look  forward  to  so  joyfully  together,  canter- 
ing through  the  Braybrooke  Woods  and 
across  the  Kineton  meadows;  I on  Dyna- 
mite and  she  on  Douchka.  It’s  happened 
to  a good  many  men  before,  and  will  hap- 
pen to  a good  many  again,  to  wake  up  and 
find  that  the  sacrifices  they  have  made 
have  been  in  vain,  and  that  all  their  plans 
have  been  based  on  an  initial  error.  This 
life  is  like  an  astronomical  calculation. 
You  reckon  the  arrival  of  a comet  or  the 


210  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


moment  of  an  eclipse,  and  in  stating  the 
problem,  start  with  an  unnoticed  error  of 
a unit  in  a logarithm,  or  an  accidental 
transposition  of  the  ninety-ninth  and  hun- 
dreth  decimal  places  in  a fraction.  The 
error  is  not  noticed,  and  you  build  your 
calculation  accordingly,  and  when  your 
phenomenon  takes  place  you  find  that 
there  is  a mistake  of  a million  miles  or  so. 

But,  Gervase,  by  all  that’s  horrible, 
please  explain  yourself.” 

‘‘Yes! — you  of  all  people  in  the  world 
have  a right  to  ask  for  an  explanation. 
What  is  it  that  your  beloved  Persian  says: — 

“ The  worldly  hope  men  set  their  hearts  upon 
Turn  Ashes — or  it  prospers,  and  anon 
(Like  Snow  upon  the  Desert’s  dusty  face) 
Lighting  a little  hour  or  two — is  gone!  ” 

“ Well,  well,  that’s  my  case.  I threw  up 
everything  a little  more  than  a year  ago, 
and  devoted  my  life  to  a pure  disinterested 
friendship  for  Rosamund  Wilmyngton,  and 
for  a year  I have  been,  as  you  know,  her 
almost  constant  companion — with  the  full 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  21 1 


approval  of  Lord  George,  who,  thank  God! 
has  nothing  to  reproach  his  wife  with. 
This  friendship  of  ours  was  enough  forme, 
it  was  my  whole  life — but  with  her  it  was 
different,  though  the  difference  only  began 
to  be  dimly  discernable  at  the  beginning  of 
last  season.  Her  friendship  for  me  raised 
the  tone  of  my  every  thought,  my  friend- 
ship for  her  had,  alas!  the  contrary  effect. 
She  ceased  to  require  a friend,  she  wanted  a 
‘tame  man;’  next  she  grew  tired  of  the 
harmless  necessary  male,  and  insisted  upon 
a slavery,  a serfdom,  and  then  my  manhood 
revolted  and  I took  a higher  and  more  de- 
cided tone,  and  then  she  came  down  from 
the  pedestal  on  which  I had  placed  her, 
and  began  to  employ  all  a woman’s  co- 
quetries to  bring  me  to  her  feet.  1 was 
blind  as  long  as  I could  be;  deaf  until  the 
heart-stricken  cry  of  Human  Nature 
reached  my  ears,  dumb  until  she  ceased 
her  silent  questioning  and  paused  for  a re- 
ply, and  got  it! — a reply  such  as  humbles  a 
woman  to  the  dust.  In  vain  she  endeav- 


212  The  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


ored,  and  I too,  to  restore  the  footing  of 
friendship  on  the  even  table-land  of  com- 
panionhood;  but  the  conviction  grew 
stronger  and  more  strong  that  the  adaman- 
tine polish  of  our  friendship  had  been  worn 
off  by  the  constant  falling  of  the  drop  of 
acid — custom — upon  its  placid  surface.  I 
woke  one  morning  from  my  peaceful  dream 
to  realize  the  grisly  commonplace  of  the 
fact  that  I was  bored.  No  sooner  had  I 
made  the  discovery  than  I strove  eagerly 
by  renewed  attention  to  my  ‘ duties  ’ to 
conceal  it — but  there  is  nothing,  as  you 
know,  that  a woman’s  unerring  eye  is 
quicker  to  perceive.  It  ended  in  her  mak- 
ing ‘a  scene’ — an  ordinary  vulgar  scene, 
like  the  heroine  of  a second-rate  novel,  or 
of  a transpontine  drama. 

In  a word,  we  parted;  parted  not  in  an- 
ger, but  in  dull,  cold,  insurmountable  indif- 
ference— and  this  heap  of  dusty  ashes, 
extinguishing  the  fire  that  warms  these 
lonely  rooms  of  mine — the  Ashes  of  our  Fu- 
ture— are  all  that  is  left  to  me.  I cannot  take 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  213 


up  my  Indian  life  again,  my  place  is  filled, 
and  I cannot  begin  afresh.  I go  down  to 
Braybrooke  to-morrow,  and  then  I shall 
spend  the  rest  of  my  days  as  a plain,  quiet 
country  squire,  as  all  the  Braybrooke  bar- 
onets have  been.  My  work  in  life  now  is 
to  take  care  of  my  dear  mother  as  long  as 
she  is  spared  to  me,  and  to  try  and  forget 
these  wasted  years.” 

So  this  was  the  end.  I sat  with  him  for 
a little  while,  and  then  left  him.  Save  at 
rare  intervals,  when  he  comes  up  to  town, 
I have  never  seen  much  of  him  since,  and 
he  has  never  referred  to  his  boyhood  and 
the  years  he  passed  by  Rosamund  Wil- 
myngton’s  side ; only — when  ‘‘Violet  Fane’s” 
exquisite  little  volume  of  poems  appeared, 
he  sent  me  a copy  with  the  corner  of  the 
page  on  which  her  “ May  Song”  occurs, 
turned  down.  It  is  almost  her  prettiest 
poem,  and  runs: — 


214  Story  of  a Younger  Son. 


“A  little  while  my  Love  and  I, 

Before  the  mowing  of  the  hay, 

Twined  daisy-chains  and  cowslip-balls, 

And  carrolled  glees  and  madrigals. 

Among  the  hay,  beneath  the  may, 

My  Love  (who  loved  me  then!)  and  I. 

“For  long  years  now,  my  Love  and  I 

Tread  severed  paths  to  different  ends; 

We  sometimes  meet  and  sometimes  say 
The  trivial  things  of  every  day; 

And  meet  as  comrades,  meet  as  friends. 
My  Love  (who  loved  me  once)  and  1. 

“ But  never  more,  my  Love  and  I 

Will  wander  forth  as  once  together. 

Nor  sing  the  songs  we  used  to  sing 

In  spring-time  in  the  cloudless  weather; 
Some  chord  is  mute  that  used  to  ring. 

Some  word  forgot  we  used  to  say 
Among  the  hay,  beneath  the  may. 

My  Love  (who  loves  me  not)  and  L” 

******* 

Lady  George  Wilmyngton  is  still  one  of 
the  most  prominent  leaders  of  London 
society.  She  is  never  without  one  espe- 
cially attentive  and  ever-attendant  cavalier, 


The  Story  of  a Younger  Son.  215 


but  those  who  knoiv^  say  that  she  never  has 
had  again  so  unflagging  and  assiduous  a 
servant  as  her  first.  And  that  was  Sir  Ger- 
vase  Braybrooke. 

‘‘By-the-bye — whatever  has  become  of 
him?’^ 


THE  END. 


The  ^ilencB  of  dheiiiton’^ 
(}hildi>eq. 


Tie  Sileece  of  Mrs.  Cieritoo’s  Ciilta 


A Story  with  No  Middle  to  It, 


PART  I. 

THE  END  OF  THE  STORY. 

I. 

‘‘  But  who  was  their  mother,  anyhow?’* 

“My  dear!  How  can  I tell  you  what 
nobody  knows?  Of  course  they  say — 
etc. — etc. — etc.” 

“But  was  she  really  as  bad  as  they  say?” 

“Well,  we  don’t  know.  She  can’t  have 
lasted  long,  for  I never  met  an  Englishman 
who  could  tell  me  anything  about  her,  or 
him,  or  them ” 


220 


The  Silence  of 


All  I know  about  it,”  broke  in  a fourth 
lady,  who  had  hitherto  kept  silence,  is 
what  I’ve  collected  from  a variety  of 
sources,  and  it’s  all  that  is  known  by  any- 
one. It  seems  that  when  Mr.  Cheriton 
was  quite  a young  man — etc.,  etc.,  etc.” 

“Oh!  how  dreadful  for  those  two  poor 
children!”  was  the  comment  of  the  chorus. 

At  this  moment  a stranger  was  an- 
nounced, and  a discreet  silence  fell  upon 
the  occupants  of  Mrs.  Van  Talkin's 
drawing-room. 


II. 

The  gaieties  of  the  winter  season  were 
in  full  swing,  and  New  York  Society — with 
a capital  S — had  for  some  months  past 
entirely  ceased  from  any  endeavor  to  save 
the  few  moments  necessary  for  serious  re- 
flection, from  the  wreck  of  time  amid  the 
rapids  of  existence.  We,  that  is  to  say 
Society — with  a capital  S — worked  hard. 
We  interviewed  our  tradesmen  in  the  morn- 


Mrs.  Cheritons  Children. 


22  1 


ing,  we  lunched  at  Delmonico’s  or  at  the 
Sapphic  function  known  as  a ladies' 
lunch,”  we  paid  three  or  four  calls  and 
looked  in  ” at  two  or  three  receptions  in 
the  afternoon;  then  we  dined  and  went  to 
the  opera — not  to  listen  to  the  music,  or  to 
reward  the  hard-working  mothers  of  fami- 
lies who  catered  for  our  amusement  under 
the  names  of  Mdlle.  Des  Trois-Etoiles — or 
as  the  case  might  be — with  our  perfunctory 
and  inappreciative  applause — but  to  chatter 
the  same  irresponsible  banalites  to  the  same 
uninteresting  people  whom  we  had  met  in 
the  afternoon  three  or  four  times,  and 
whom  it  was  a matter  of  the  complefhst 
indifference  to  us  if  we  never  met  again! 

Day  after  day  we  walked  or  drove  on 
‘‘  the  Avenue,”  and  passed  the  same  people 
again,  greeting  them  with  the  same  un- 
interested smile,  or  stopping  to  engage 
them  in  that  style  of  conversation  which 
Oscar  Wilde  has  epigrammatically  stigma- 
tized as  the  last  resource  of  people  who 
have  nothing  to  say!”  And,  by-the-by,  we 


222 


The  Sileiice  of 


called  this  “ Life.”  It  was,  I believe,  the 
Bishop  of  Carlisle  who  defined  life  as  ‘‘  a 
potentiality  for  action,  locomotion,  and 
change,  without  the  assistance  of  any  ex- 
ternal cause.”  This  is  a definition  that 
has  often  recurred  to  me  during  a “busy  ” 
winter’s  day  in  New  York,  and  I have  often 
caught  myself  wondering  vaguely  whether 
the  learned  ecclesiastic  founded  his  de- 
finition on  an  observance  of  Society  in 
Gotham. 

We — that  is  to  say  Society  (with  a capital 
S) — had  attended  our  dinner-party,  and 
had  adjourned  to  the  club  for  a quiet  weed 
and  a meditative  pool,  whilst  our  wife  had 
got  inside  her  ball-dress;  and  we  had  run 
together  again,  like  the  Athenians  of  old, 
in  search  of  some  new  thing,  to  meet  chez 
Belmonico^  and  play  our  parts  in  the  little 
realistic  drama  known  as  “ The  Patriarch's 
Ball.”  I was  a stray  Englishman,  and  the 
exquisite  hospitality  of  the  historic  emin- 
ence known  as  Murray  Hill  had  provided 
me  with  a ticket  for  the  ball,  and  would 


Mrs.  CJieriton  s Children. 


223 


have  furnished  me  with  a partner,  had  I 
desired  one,  for  the  cotillon. 

Before  that  somewhat  spasmodic  dissi- 
pation commenced,  however,  I had,  as  a 
result  of  my  recent  arrival,  been  betraying 
a tendency  towards  “ holding  up  the  door- 
way,” and  therefore,  when  young  .^selkopf 
Van  Spook  came  up  and  offered  to  present 
me  to  somebody,  I almost  forgave  him  the 
hybrid  intensity  of  his  aggressive  Man- 
hattan ancestry,  and  strolled  off  round  the 
room  with  him. 

Sitting,  for  the  moment  alone,  against  a 
background  of  cotillon  bouquets,  in  an 
angle  of  the  room,  I noticed,  for  the  first 
time  that  evening,  as  we  pursued  our  way 
round  the  floor,  a young  girl  whose  air  of 
innocent  enjoyment,  and  fresh  coloring,  be- 
spoke, no  less  surely  than  the  unrelieved 
snowiness  of  her  costume,  ‘‘  the  ingenue^" 
the  debutante.^  in  fact,  the  Bud.”  She 
arrested  my  attention  while  we  were  yet 
some  yards  distant  from  her,  and,  gripping 
Van  Spook  by  the  elbow,  I said  to  him: 


224 


The  Silence  of 


Who  is  the  fair  maiden  in  white,  over 
there?” 

Oh!  that’s  Miss  Daphne  Cheriton,  and 
the  girl  just  sitting  down  by  her  side  is  her 
twin-sister,  Miss  Josephine,  ‘of  that  ilk.’ 
They’re  both  debutantes  of  this  year,  and 
this  is  their  second  ball.  I’ll  present  you; 
old  Cheriton’s  worth  five  millions  if  he’s 
worth  a cent,  and  you  see  before  you  his 
entire  family.  If  you  want  to  call  on  them, 
say  you’ve  heard  of  their  father  over  here^ 
and  would  like  to  make  his  acquaintance. 
Whatever  you  do,  don’t  say  a word  about 
Mrs.  Cheriton,  or  in  any  way  recognize 
the  possibility  of  their  ever  having  had  a 
mother.” 

“Goodness  me!  why ” 

“Hush! — Miss  Cheriton,  will  you  allow 
me  to  introduce  an  English  friend,  Mn 
Lyster?  Mr.  Lyster;  Miss  Daphne  Cheri- 
ton;” and  he  was  gone. 

The  Cheriton  twins  were  dark  and  fair; 
of  the  two  I think  Miss  Josephine  was  the 
more  interesting.  There  was  something  in 


Jlfrs.  Cheriton  s Children. 


225 


the  calm  watchfulness  of  her  grave,  gloomy 
eyes,  something  about  the  expression  of 
reserve  that  she  habitually  wore,  which 
seemed  to  intensify  the  delicate  pallor  of 
her  face,  and  produced  an  effect  that  was 
essentially  indescribable.  I was  therefore 
more  than  pleased  when,  at  the  end  of  our 
waltz,  she  suggested  that  we  should  ‘^sit 
somewhere  cool  for  a moment.”  We  chatted 
of  men  and  things,  general  and  individual, 
for  a space — indeed  time  slipped  by  faster 
than  I knew;  and  we  were  interrupted  in 
our  conversation  by  the  sudden  appearance 
of  Mr.  Cheriton,  with  an  inquiry  as  to  his 
daughter’s  supper  arrangements.  I offered 
myself  with  that  true  British  promptitude 
which  has  been  known  to  the  vulgar  as 
“cheek.”  Miss  Josephine  Cheriton  pre- 
sented me  to  her  father,  and  we  three  went 
down  to  supper  together. 

Eugene  Cheriton  was  a tall,  dignified 
man  of  perhaps  forty-three  or  four;  I 
should  have  guessed  his  age  at  that  from 
the  erectness  of  his  carriage  and  the  quick- 


226 


The  Silence  of 


ness  of  his  manner  and  conversation,  a 
quickness  in  which  there  was  at  times 
something  almost  brusque.  At  'the  first 
glance  you  would  have  given  him  another 
decade  at  least,  for  his  hair  was  almost 
white,  and  in  the  lines  round  his  mouth 
and  eyes  one  could  see  the  indications  of 
acute  suffering,  mental  or  physical,  or  per- 
haps of  dissipation.  Still,  beneath  the  af- 
fability of  his  manner  and  conversation, 
the  cordiality  with  which  he  greeted  me, 
and,  so  to  speak,  took  me  to  his  heart,  1 
fancied  I could  detect  a certain  watchful- 
ness, and  a suppressed  irritation  which 
mieht  be  either  the  nervousness  of  the 
hypochondriac  or  the  subdued  ferocity  of 
the  caged  brute.  There  are  men  who 
always  impress  me  thus,  and  Eugene 
Cheriton  was  one  of  them. 

We  had  been  settled  only  a few  moments 
when  Miss  Daphne  Cheriton,  who  was 
seated  at  a neighboring  table,  cam.e  over  and 
whispered  a few  words  to  her  sister.  Her 
father  took  advantage  of  the  circumstance 
to  say: 


Mrs.  Cheriton  s Children. 


227 


I say,  you  children,  you’re  not  going  to 
stay  for  the  cotillon.” 

(Chorus)  ‘‘  Oh  Papa!  ! ” 

Well,  I’m  dead  tired,  and  ought  to 
have  been  in  bed  hours  ago.” 

But,  Papa,”  said  Miss  Josephine,  ^Mt’s 
as  much  as  our  lives  are  worth  not  to  stay; 
we’ve  been  engaged  for  weeks.  ” 

And  even  girls  should  meet  their  en- 
gagements,” added  Miss  Daphne. 

‘‘  But — ” began  Cheriton. 

^‘There’s  no  ‘but ’about  it,”  said  Miss 
Daphne.  “ The  Miss  Cheritons  are  just 
going  to  stay  right  here,”  and  she  skipped 
off. 

“ You  see,”  said  Cheriton,  turning  to  me 
with  benign  paterfamiliarity,  “what  a thing 
it  is  to  be  a father.” 

“ I see,  on  the  contrary,”  said  I,  totally 
forgetting  Van  Spook’s  injunction,  “ what  a 
thing  it  is  to  have  such  a father — or  only  a 
father  to  deal  with.  My  last  partner  was 
taken  home  before  supper  by  her  stern 
mamma,  and  I don’t  think  that  even  Miss 


228 


The  Silence  of  • 


Daphne  Cheriton  would  prevail  under  such 
circumstances,  once  the  chaperonial  mind 
was  made  up.” 

In  an  instant  what  I had  done  flashed 
across  me.  Miss  Josephine  turned  a little 
paler  than  usual,  and  looked  across  at  her 
father  in  a manner  half  anxious  and — it 
seemed  to  me — half  contemptuous.  Eu- 
gene Cheriton  had  bitten  his  lip  and  risen 
from  the  table,  supporting  himself  by  one 
hand  resting  upon  it,  whilst  the  other  was 
pressed  to  his  heart.  Huskily  stammering. 
Excuse  me,”  and  bowing,  in  a manner 
which  exhibited  an  effort  of  the  supremest 
self-control,  he  left  us;  as  he  disappeared 
through  the  doorway,  he  passed  his  hand- 
kerchief across  his  forehead,  and  the  play 
was  over.  I say  the  play,”  because  some- 
how or  other,  in  the  whole  scene,  it  struck 
me  that  there  was  a false  note  somewhere 
— that  it  was  too  dramatic — not  good 

form.” 

Still,  it  was  a very  awkward  thing  to 
have  done,  a most  unpleasant  position  to 


Mrs.  Cheritons  Children. 


229 


have  placed  one’self  in,  and  required  some 
spontaneous  tact  for  its  solution.  The  tact 
of  women  comes  out  in  rapid  initiative,  the 
tact  of  man  lies  in  inaction;  and  in  cases  like 
the  present — the  man  generally  throws  the 
difficulty  immediately  on  to  the  shoulders 
of  the  woman — a tacit  recognition  of  her 
superior  ethical  powers.  Manlike,  on  this 
occasion,  I merely  looked  across  at  Miss 
Cheriton  interrogatively,  and  she,  rising 
also,  remarked: 

“ Shall  we  get  back  upstairs?  It  is  very 
close  here.” 

As  soon  as  we  had  left  the  elevator  I 
said  to  her: 

^‘You  cannot  conceive.  Miss  Cheriton, 
how  grieved  I am  that  a blunder  of  mine 
should  have  caused  this  contretonps.  I 
have  evidently  wounded  your  father  deeply, 
but  I hope  you  will  explain  to  him  how  in- 
nocent I was  of  any  intention  to  wound. 

“ There  is  no  need  to  discuss  the  matter, 
Mr.  Lyster,”  replied  the  girl,  a faint  tinge 
coming  to  her  cheeks,  and  the  pupils  of 


230 


The  Silence  of 


her  eyes  slightly  contracting.  ‘‘  Of  course 
you  are  in  no  way  to  blame;  as  a stranger 
to  the  city  you  could  not  know  my  father’s 
peculiarity — his  idiosyncracy — in  this  re- 
spect. Any  suggestion  involving  my 
mother  always  has  that  effect  upon  him;  it 
is  a subject  on  which  the  profoundest 
silence  reigns,  not  only  in  our  family,  but 
among  our  friends.  I am  sorry  to  have  to 
tell  you  this  myself,  but  I feel  it  is  better 
to  get  over  it  at  once.  Now,  if  you  please, 
we  will  talk  of  something  else. 

We  did  so,  and  presently  her  partner  for 
the  cotillon  came  to  claim  her,  and  I went 
in  search  of  ^selkopf  Van  Spook  and  an 
explanation. 

‘^Well,  you  see,  my  dear  Mr.  Lyster,” 
said  the  young  gentleman  in  question,  in 
answer  to  my  query  as  we  drew  up  easy- 
chairs  on  either  side  of  an  anti-temperance 
table,  in  front  of  the  fire  that  we  found 
blazing  in  my  rooms  at  the  Everett  House, 
‘‘you  are  asking  for  information  on  a subject 


Mrs.  Cheritons  Children. 


231 


about  which  I know  as  little  as  anybody  else 
in  New  York;  but  what  everybody  knows  I 
can  tell  you.” 

‘‘  Eugene  Cheriton  is  an  Englishman. 
He  arrived  in  New  York  thirteen  years 
ago  with  his  twin  daughters,  who  were 
then  six  years  old.  Immediately  on  his 
arrival  the  nurse  who  accompanied  them 
from  England  was  sent  back,  and  thus  the 
city  was  deprived  of  its  only  source  of 
definite  information.  Cheriton  seemed 
well  off  when  he  arrived — was  so  undoubt- 
edly— and  since  his  arrival  the  business  to 
which  he  has  devoted  himself  with  unflag- 
ging enthusiasm  has  doubled  or  trebled  his 
capital.  Who  his  wife  was  or  is — for  no 
one  knows  whether  she  is  alive  or  dead — - 
is  as  much  of  a mystery  to-day  as  it  was  on 
the  morning  of  his  arrival  in  the  new 
world.  It  was  understood  that  he  had 
been  the  petitioner  in  a divorce  case-^not 
a sensational  divorce  case,  but  an  or- 
dinary vulgar  affair  disposed  of  in  four 
lines  by  “ The  Times,”  and  without  any 


232 


The  Silence  of 


redeeming  features,  sensational  or  roman- 
tic. Beyond  this,  thirteen  years  of  as- 
siduous female  enquiry  have  only  elicited 
the  shadowy  information  that  Cheriton, 
when  very  young,  married  a beautiful  pau- 
per over  there:  she  was  not,  it  appears, 
duly  grateful,  and  after  a couple  of  years 
or  so,  he  was  separated,  leaving  her  the 
children  in  the  hope,  it  is  said,  that  they 
would  reform  her.  They  didn’t.  She  went 
from  bad  to  worse,  and  three  years  after- 
wards he  had  finally  to  sue  for  a divorce  and 
take  the  children  from  her.  The  tragedy 
aged  him  as  you  see — for  he’s  not  much 
over  forty — and  from  the  day  he  arrived 
the  word  ‘wife’  or  ‘mother  ’ upsets  him, 
whilst  if  you  allude  to  Mrs.  Cheriton  even 
indirectly  he  has  a kind  of  fit.  I saw  you 
‘ strike  a snag,’  as  we  say  over  here,  whilst 
talking  to  him  in  the  supper-room.  Now 
you  understand  the  position.” 

“Yes,”  I replied,  “I  understand  the 
position,”  but  1 don’t  understand  Cher- 
iton.” 


Mrs.  Cheriton  s Children. 


233 


No,  I should  think  not.  No  one  does. 
He’s  about  as  deep  as  a well,  and  though 
the  water  is  pure  enough  that  comes  out  of 
it,  in  consequence  of  the  fact  that  the 
bucket  never  gets  far  below  the  surface,  I 
shouldn’t  be  surprised  if  it  were  precious 
muddy  down  at  the  bottom.” 

‘‘Eh!”  I exclaimed,  astonished  princi- 
pally at  discovering  in  young  Van  Spook  a 
penetration  for  which  I had  not  given  him 
credit. 

“ I mean,”  said  he,  “ that  entre  nous,  I 
believe  that  Cheriton  is  an  infernal  fraud.” 

“ Shake!”  said  I,  d V A meric  am.  We  un- 
derstood one  another,  and  changed  the 
conversation. 


III. 

Calling  a few  days  later  at  No.  7 West 
40th  street,  I was  fortunate  in  finding  the 
Miss  Cheritons  at  home;  and,  improving 
an  acquaintance  which  had  promised,  it 
seemed  to  me,  such  a pleasant  future  at  its 
commencement,  I soon  became  almost  an 


234 


The  Silence  of 


hahitud  in  the  Cheriton  household.  Cer- 
tainly there  was  no  house  in  which,  during 
my  stay  in  New  York,  I felt'  more  thor- 
oughly at  home;  and  when  I have  said  that, 

I have  said  almost  everything  a confirmed 
bachelor  of  six-and-thirty  can  say. 

Of  the  twin  girls.  Miss  Josephine  was — if 
one  may  apply  the  expression  to  a twin — the 
elder.  She  seemed  to  be  of  a stronger 
fibre  than  her  sister,  and  gave  me  the  im- 
pression of  being  a charming  whilst 

Miss  Daphne  was  nothing  more  or  less 
than  a singularly  attractive  girl.  It  was 
with  the  psychologically-elder  twin  there- 
fore, that  I felt  most  in  sympathy,  and  I 
used  to  hold  long,  serious  conversations 
with  her  whenever  we  found  ourselves' 
alone.  I fancy  that  Mr.  Cheriton  encour- 
aged our  intimacy  somewhat  from  a mis- 
taken idea  that  we  should  eventually  marry 
one  another,  though  I may  confidently  say 
that  such  an  idea  never  for  one  fleeting  in- 
stant entered  either  of  our  heads.  With 
Eugene  Cheriton  I never  got  below  the 


Mrs.  Cheriton  s Children. 


235 


surface — the  undisturbed  and  apparently 
undisturbable  surface — of  his  calm  social 
affability.  He  never  alluded  in  any  way  to 
our  first  unhappy  conversation,  and  during 
the  five  months  that  I frequented  the 
Cheritons’  house,  I ne\^r  heard  the  name 
of  the  late  (?)  Mrs.  Cheriton  mentioned,  or 
her  present  or  past  existence  even  remotely 
alluded  to.  Nothing  in  the  house  sug- 
gested he: — nothing  beyond  young  Van 
Spook’s  account,  shadowy  and  unsatisfac- 
tory as  it  was,  could  I ever  learn  about  the 
mother  of  the  beautiful  twins. 

One  day,  the  servant  having  admitted 
me  in  No.  7 W.  40th  Street  and  disappeared 
incontinently  (as  had  grown  to  be  his 
wont),  I entered  the  inner  drawing-room 
unannounced,  and  caught  Miss  Josephine 
standing  in  the  bay  of  a window  looking 
intently  at  an  open  miniature-case  which 
she  held  in  her  hand.  I was  coming  up 
behind  to  surprise  her,  and  discover 
her  tender  secret,  when  suddenly,  her 
sharp  ears  catching  my  footfall,  she  turned, 


236 


The  Silence  of 


started  violently  at  seeing  me,  and,  blush- 
ing crimson  from  her  beautiful  throat  to 
the  roots  of  her  hair,  shut  the  miniature- 
case  with  a snap.  I held  out  my  hand  as  if 
to  take  it,  saying  laughingly, 

^^Give  it  up — who  is  he?’' 

Quick  as  thought  she  put  her  hand  be- 
hind her  back,  exclaiming  as  she  did  so: 
“Oh,  Mr.  Lyster,  how  you  startled  me!” 

Her  hand  struck  some  piece  of  furniture, 
the  case  flew  from  it,  and  opening  as  it 
reached  the  floor,  lay  thus,  face  downwards. 
I stooped  to  pick  it  up,  and  the  girl  ex- 
claimed rapidly: 

“ On  your  honor  as  a gentleman  don’t 
look  at  that  picture,  Mr.  Lyster!  ” 

Of  course  I picked  up  the  case,  closing 
it  as  I did  so;  but  having  restored  it,  I be- 
gan to  chaff  the  girl  about  the  original, 
wondering  vaguely  who  the  man  could  be 
who  would  risk  encountering  the  expres- 
sion “No”  in  those  dark,  solemn  eyes.  I 
saw  that  my  badinage  pained  her,  so  I de- 
sisted, and  we  turned  to  other  topics. 


Mrs.  Cherito7is  Children. 


237 


As  I rose  to  go  I saw  something  white  on 
the  floor,  and  stooping  to  pick  it  up,  I saw 
that  it  was  a picture  of  a woman.  A cry 
of  astonishment  broke  involuntarily  from 
my  lips  as  I stood  looking  at  it,  transfixed 
with  amazement;  the  girl  gave  one  look  at 
it,  and  snatched  it  from  my  hand  with  an 
exclamation  that  seemed  to  vibrate  with 
agony. 

‘‘In  God's  name,"  said  I,  hardly  above  a 
whisper,  “ who  is  that  woman? " 

“ My  mother." 


IV. 

Nearly  fourteen  years  before  the  events 
above  recorded,  Rex  Stanhope,  one  of  the 
dearest  friends  I had  ever  had  in  the 
world,  an  old  school-fellow  of  mine,  a gen- 
tleman aiix  bouts  des  angles,  and  the  soul  of 
honor,  went  hopelessly,  irretrievably,  to  the 
devil. 

There  was  a woman  in  the  case,  though 
poor  old  Rex  was  as  pure  from  any  blame, 
as  far  as  she  was  concerned,  as  an  unborn 


238 


The  Silence  of 


babe.  She  was  an  old,  old  love  of  his,  and 
had  thrown  him  over  to  marry  another 
man.  Had  thrown  him  over,  did  I say? 
Hardly  that.  She  had  been  forced  by  her 
people  into  an  unwilling  marriage  with  an 
older  and  richer  suitor,  and  Rex  had  con- 
secrated his  life  to  a, dumb,  passionate  re- 
gret for  the  might  have  been.’*  Five 
years  after  her  marriage,  however,  his  idol 
fell,  shattered,  stained,  defiled;  and  Rex, 
no  longer  having  any  hope  in  the  world, 
shocked  out  of  all  power  of  reflection,  had 
abandoned  every  tie  that  bound  him  to  his 
fair  pure  life,  and,  in  trying  to  drown  his 
grief  in  the  mad  dissipations  of  three  capi- 
tals, fell  from  bad  to  worse,  from  worse  to 
vilest,  and  finally  died  insane,  in  a garret  of 
the  Quartier  Latin  in  Paris. 

He  had  never  told  me  the  name  of  the 
woman  he  had  loved  and  lost,  but  he  had 
often  shown  me  her  picture,  and  this  pic- 
ture I found  in  the  breast-pocket  of  the 
tattered  coat  that  was  made  over  to  me  by 
the  conciei'ge  of  the  maiso7i-meublce^  wither  I 


Mrs.  Cheriton  s Children. 


239 


be-took  myself,  accompanied  by  his  brother, 
at  the  request  of  poor  Rex’s  people,  to 
bring  the  boy’s  body  home.  The  portrait 
was  a duplicate  of  the  one  I had  just 
returned  to  Miss  Cheriton,  the  portrait  of 
her  mother! 

The  whole  story  flashed  across  me  again 
as  we  stood  in  the  gathering  twilight  of 
the  winter’s  afternoon — that  woman’s 
daughter  and  I.  My  brain  whirled,  and  I 
could  hardly  remember  where  I was,  so 
vivid  was  the  picture  of  the  past  that  the 
miniature  had  brought  up  to  me.  Jose- 
phine Cheriton’s  voice  broke  the  silence,  as 
we  stood  looking  at  one  another: 

Mr.  Lyster,”  said  she  calmly,  did  you 
know  my  mother?” 

And  as  she  spoke  the  light  of  a great 
Fear  seemed  to  blaze  from  her  eyes,  fear 
for  what  my  answer  might  be.  For- 
tunately I had  recovered  myself  sufficiently 
to  reply: 

<‘No,  Miss  Cheriton,  I did  not;  upon 
my  honor,  I never  saw  her.  My  astonish- 


240 


The  Silence  of 


ment  was  caused  by  the  startling  likeness 
that  your  mother’s  picture  bears  to  that  of 
a woman  who  crossed  the  path  of  a dear 
friend  of  mine — before  your  father  was 
married  even.  Please  think  no  more  about 
it.  I can  imagine  how  painful  this  acci- 
dent, and  its  impression  upon  you,  must 
have  been.  I was  mistaken  in  the  dim 
light  for  a moment;  believe  me,  I shall  not 
refer  to  it  again,  and  you  will  favor  me 
very  greatly  by  not  doing  so  either.  I 
shall  leave  you  now;  when  next  we  meet 
I shall  have  forgotten  all  about  it.  You 
understand,  we  must  have  forgotten  all 
about  it.  ” 

And  I left  her,  shaken  for  my  part  to 
the  soul  by  the  sudden  revelation  of  the 
last  act  of  the  tragedy  in  which  I had 
played  a minor  part  nearly  fourteen  years 
before. 

^ )ic  :ic  4:  4c  jH  ^ 

A few  nights  afterwards  I was  dining 
with  the  Cheritons.  When  the  ladies  had 
left  the  table,  the  conversation  turned  on 


Ml'S.  Cheriton  s Children. 


241 


the  modern  taste  for  Russian  novels,  and 
the  analytical,  almost  morbid  romances  of 
the  Tolstoi  and  Dostoievski  school.  We 
had  been  establishing  comparisons  and 
contrasts  between  the  Russian  novelist  and 
Honore  de  Balzac  and  Emil  Zola,  and  in 
turn  between  their  realism  and  psychology 
and  that  of  Baring  Gould  and  Edgar 
Saltus.  Suddenly  a young  journalist  re- 
marked quite  casually: 

“ It  simply  comes  to  this.  The  merely 
narrative  form  is  practically  a thing  of  the 
past;  and  just  as  the  French  novelist  of  the 
last  half  century  has  had  but  one  direction 
in  which  to  exercise  his  originality  and  his 
imagination,  namely,  the  development  and 
de'nouement  of  what  has  been  aptly  called 
reternel  adutere^  so,  the  English  novel 
of  to-day  consists  solely  of  a study  of  hu- 
man nature,  in  which  a woman’s  life  is 
ruined  by  a man,  or  a man’s  life  is  ruined 
by  a woman.” 

As  I fully  expected,  this  was  Eugene 
Cheriton’s  cue  and  he  promptly  began  to 


The  Silence  of 


242 

go  through  his  artistic  histrionic  agony  of 
recollection  and  remorse.  I never  believed 
in  the  genuineness  of  this  performance, 
and  after  the  revelation  of  a few  days  pre- 
viously I felt  disgusted  by  it,  so  I remarked 
out  loud  and  quite  distinctly  to  him: 

As,  for  instance,  in  the  case  of  Rex 
Stanhope.” 

The  effect  was  electrical.  The  “ perform- 
ance” ceased  abruptly,  and  for  the  rest 
of  the  evening  Cheriton’s  eyes  wandered 
continually  and  nervously  in  my  direction. 
I carefully  avoided  his  glance,  however, 
and  as  we  rose  to  rejoin  the  ladies,  young 
Van  Spook,  who  was  of  the  party,  whis- 
pered to  me: 

By  Jove!  Mr.  Lyster,  you’ve  harpooned 
the  fishing-frog  this  time!” 

His  remark  requires  explanation.  I had, 
whilst  dining  with  Mr.  Van  Spook  a few 
weeks  previously,  elaborated  to  him  my 
theory  of  The  Fishing-frog  and  the  Flat- 
Fish,”  which  is  a favorite  one  of  mine,  and 
is  shortly  as  follows: 


Mrs.  Cheritons  Children. 


243 


Men  who  have  anything  in  their  past 
lives  or  present  occupations  which,  for 
reasons  of  their  own,  they  wish  to  conceal 
— in  a phrase,  “ men  with  histories,’' 
are,  to  me,  the  fishing-frogs  and  the  flat- 
fishes of  society. 

Both  of  these  fishes  are  formed  by  na- 
ture to  conceal  themselves  whilst  on  the 
war-path  for  either  victims  or  food,  but 
their  plans  of  campaign  are  essentially  and 
diametrically  different..  The  flat-fish  sinks 
upon  the  sand  of  the  ocean-floor,  a flap” 
or  two  disturbs  enough  sand  around  him 
to  fall  back  and  cover  him  up,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  the  one  protruding  eye  which 
looks  like  a tiny  pebble  on  the  sand,  but 
which  watches  for  the  unwary  animalcule, 
whilst  attracting  it  to  its  alimentary  fate. 
The  fishing-frog,  on  the  other  hand,  lies 
upon  the  mud  at  the  bottom  of  the  water, 
and  when  anything  approaches  it,  goes  into 
violent  convulsions,  which  hide  him  in  a 
nebula  of  mud.  If  it  is  an  enemy,  the  ani- 
mal escapes  under  cover  of  the  turgidity  it 


244 


The  Silence  of 


has  produced;  if  it  is  a fishlet  available  for 
food,  he  throws  out  a multicolored  ‘‘feeler,’ 
which  the  ill-fated  creature  lays  hold  of 
preliminary  to  being  swallowed  up;  and  if 
it  is  neither,  the  fishing-frog  — like  Brer 
Rabbit — merely  “ lays  low.” 

Verb  sap\  Eugene  Cheriton  had  struck 
me,  the  first  time  I saw  him,  as  one  of  the 
fishing-frogs  of  society,  and  the  discovery 
of  his  wife’s  identity,  and  the  history  which 
he  concealed  in  theatrical  mud  — the  his- 
tory which  I knew  so  well  — confirmed  me 
in  my  opinion. 

On  the  day  following  this  dinner-party 
Mr.  Cheriton  called  upon  me.  It  is  need- 
less to  waste  time  and  space  in  recording 
the  game  of  words  we  played  with  one 
another,  a game  in  which  Cheriton  had 
much  to  lose,  and  in  which  I held  the 
winning  cards.  Be  it  sufficient  to  say  that 
I closed  the  confabulation  with  these 
words: 

“ Our  position  is  this,  Mr.  Cheriton. 
You  have,  for  very  obvious  reasons, 


Mrs.  Cheritons  Childreji. 


245 


imposed  a silence  with  regard  to  their 
mother  upon  Mrs.  Cheriton’s  children.  It 
is  not  improbable  that  you  and  I are  the 
only  people  in  America  — perhaps  in  the 
world  — who  know  the  true  story  of  your 
poor  wife’s  disgrace,  and  of  the  circum- 
stances which  led  to  and  followed  it.  I 
entertain  too  warm  a regard  for  your 
daughters,  ever  by  any  action  or  word  of 
mine,  to  enlighten  their  happy  ignorance 
of  their  mother’s  fall,  or  to  lay  bare  to  the 
world  the  deceit  which  you  have  practised 
for  so  many  years.  Unfortunately,  your 
lie  is  not  all  a lie;  but  should  it  ever 
become  so,  should  your  daughters  or  the 
world  ever  come  to  know  anything  defin- 
itely reflecting  on  their  mother’s  good 
name,  I give  you  fair  warning  that  they 
shall  know  to  its  minutest  details  the  story 
of  Eugene  Cheriton,  of  Ethel  Fethrestone 
— and  of  Rex  Stanhope.  This  question  is 
now  at  an  end  between  us;  pardon  me  if  I 
refuse  to  enter  into  it  any  further,  and 
now,  good-morning.” 


246 


The  Silence  of 


He  saw  that  my  mind  was  made  up,  and 
he  took  his  leave.  A week  later  I started 
for  San  Francisco,  en  route  for  Japan  and 
India  and  home.  I kept  myself  informed, 
however,  upon  the  subject  of  the  Cheri- 
tons;  and,  as  far  as  I can  learn,  Mr. 
Eugene  Cheriton  has  kept  religously  to  his 
part  of  the  bargain. 

I never  saw  either  him  or  his  daughters 


again. 


Afrs.  Chert  to  ns  Children. 


247 


PART  II. 

THE  INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  STORY. 


I. 

In  all  Oriel  College,  there  was  no  greater, 
no  more  universal  favorite  than  Rex  Stan- 
hope. He  was  one  of  the  best-looking 
boys  in  the  university,  and  one  of  the  most 
charming  and  insouciant.  Among  the  wives 
and  daughters  of  the  “ Dons  ” he  was  a 
sort  of  spoiled  child,  and,  when,  before 
the  beginning  of  the  long  vacation  of  the 
year  18 — , it  became  understood  and  real- 
ized that  Rex,  having  taken  his  degree, 
was  going  down,**  and  that  Oxford  would 
know  him  no  more,  the  expressions  of  re- 
gret that  echoed  from  all  sides  were  emi- 
nently sincere. 

‘‘  Down  **  he  went,  however,  flushed  with 
his  successes  in  the  schools,  and  with  the 
most  exalted  anticipations  of  his  entry  into 


248  The  Silence  of 

the  merry,  dazzling  life  in  London  society, 
to  which,  as  youngest  scion  of  one  of  the 
oldest  families  in  the  country,  he  eagerly 
looked  forward.  He  knew  by  hearsay 
enough  of  “ life  ” to  be  unalterably  of 
opinion  that  the  “bitters”  thereof  were 
sweet,  or  at  most  only  mildly  pungent, 
whilst  its  “sweets”  were  a matter  of  course! 
Faites  votre  jeu^  messieurs  et  'dames;  c'est  a 
prendre  ou  a laisser!  Trrrrwi! ! Zero! 
It’s  thirty-seven  to  one  against  it,  but  it’s 
surprising  how  often  it  comes  up  in  the 
roulette  oi  “life.”  Pardon  this  digressive 
echo  from  Monte  Carlo,  and  let  us  pro- 
ceed. 

Rex  Stanhope  made  his  entry  into  “ so- 
ciety” at  Lady  Oswald’s  ball.  Lady  Oswald 
inhabited  a beautiful  old  place  in  Fulham — 
I am  talking  of  twenty  years  ago— hidden 
among  giant  elms  and  surrounded  by  a 
carefully-kept,  old-fashioned  garden,  the 
whole  protected  by  a high  red-brick  wall, 
which,  at  the  same  time,  formed  a warm 
back-ground  for  the  giant  hollyhocks  and 


Ml'S.  Cheriton  s Children.  249 

sunflowers,  the  lupins  and  the  gilly-flowers, 
which  straggled  in  picturesque  confusion 
over  the  borders,  and  protected  her  lady- 
ship’s old-time  refuge  from  the  gaze  of  the 
curious,  who  were  at  this  time  just  begin- 
ning to  seek  light  and  air  in  the  direction 
of  West  Kensington,  of  Putney,  and  of 
Barnes.  Once  a year  Lady  Oswald  gave  a 
great  ball  to  which  “everybody”  went, 
and  thither,  panoplied  in  the  magnificence 
of  his  newest  toilette.,  went  the  Hon- 
orable Rex  Stanhope,  to  make  his  first  ap- 
pearance in  the  “world,”  just  ten  days 
after  he  had  bidden  farewell  as  a scholar 
to  his  Alma  Mater  and  Oriel  College. 

As  yet  his  acquaintance  was  small,  and, 
at  the  termination  of  a waltz,  he  stood,  as 
is  the  habit  of  the  unknown  young  man, 
in  the  great  square  hall,  watching  the  long 
procession  of  dancers  seeking  the  cool  of 
the  conservatories  and  the  solitudes  of  the 
garden,  to  re-appear — or  not,  as  the  case 
might  be — in  time  for  the  next  dance.  And 
as  he  stood,  there  appeared  in  the  door- 


250 


The  Silence  of 


way,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  her  late  part- 
ner, his  first  love — Ethel  Fethreston.  He 
had  never  seen  her  before;  he  had  no  idea 
who  she  was,  but  it  seemed  to  him  that  he 
saw  a woman  ” for  the  first  time.  It  was  the 
story  of  Manon  Lescaut  and  the  Chevalier 
Des  Grieux  over  again,  and  Rex  Stanhope 
followed  the  mistress  of  his  soul  ” into 
the  garden.  For  as  she  passed  him  their 
eyes  had  met;  in  his,  a great  wondering 
confusion,  born  of  the  new  sensation  of  a 
beating  heart  and  a hot,  strained  feeling  at 
the  throat;  in  hers,  the  calm  triumph  of  a 
woman  in  the  knowledge  of  her  own  peer- 
less beauty,  and  the  half-uncomfortable 
triumph  of  the  not  altogether  heartless 
flirt — for  Ethel  Fethreston  had  been  the 
most  accomplished  flirt  of  two  seasons, 
and  her  victims,  whom  she  thoroughlv 
understood  how  to  manage,  were  to  be 
found  in  every  drawing-room  in  London. 
Rex  Stanhope,  however,  knew  nothing  of 
this — how  should  he,  poor  boy? — and  as 
she  bowed  to  him  in  passing,  a great  wave 


Mj's.  CheyHton  s Childy'en. 


251 


of  joyous  triumph  came  over  him,  and  he 
followed  her  into  the  garden  in  answer  to 
her  bow. 

Ethel  Fethreston  was  not  very  tall,  nor 
had  ^e,  in  common  with  many  medium- 
sized women,  the  trick  of  holding  herself 
so  as  to  give  an  impression  of  dignity,  if 
not  of  height.  Her  features  were  not  very 
regular,  but  she  had  great,  wondering, 
violet  eyes,  of  the  ingenious  ingenue '' 
description,  and  a grand,  passionate  mouth 
and  square,  strong  jaw  that  were  strangely 
belied  by  her  almost  impertinent  tip-tilted 
nose  and  her  almost  childishly  enthusiastic 
manner.  The  whole,  framed  by  her  Titian- 
like  burnt-sepia  hair,  produced  an  effect  of 
torrid  beauty  which  had  turned  many  a 
head  before  Rex’s;  and  there  is  no  deny- 
ing the  fact  that,  when  the  beautiful  Ethel 
flirted,  she  flirted  with  a will,  and  in  a way 
peculiarly  her  own.  Rex  had  every  cause 
therefore  to  be  as  proud  of  his  conquest 
as  she  of  hers,  and  the  novelty  of  the 
situation  was  essentially  indescribable,  as. 


252 


The  Silence  of 


when  the  music  of  the  next  dance  com- 
menced, he  met  her  returning  to  the  ball- 
room, and,  she  transferring  her  arm  to  his, 
they  had  wandered  off  together  into  the 
discreet  gloom  of  Lady  Oswald’s  pleas- 
aunce,  just  as  if  they  had  known  one 
another  for  years. 

’Twas  she  who  broke  the  silence.  Rex 
was  too  “ inexperienced  ” to  take  up  the 
cue  with  the  aplojnb  which  she  had  given  it 
to  him. 

You  will  think  me  very  rude,”  said  she, 
“ for  what  I am  going  to  say,  but  I must 
confess  that  though  your  face  is  perfectly 
familiar  to  me,  I can’t  for  the  life  of  me 
remember  where  I’ve  met  you  before.” 

“ I am  sorry  to  say,”  answered  Rex, 
gai/che-\yy  that  we  nez’er  met  before.” 

Oh,  how  dreadful!  Please  excuse  my 
most  stupid  mistake.  Will  you  take  me 
back  to  the  house ; I suppose  I’ve  got  a 
partner  for  the  next  dance,  looking  for  me 
somewhere.” 

Ah,  no!  don’t  go  away.  I know  I’ve 


M7's.  Cheritojts  Children,  253 

no  right  to  ask  it,  and  it’s  awful  cheek  on 
my  part — but — won’t  you  let  me  introduce 
myself.  I’m  Rex  Stanhope;  my  governor’s 
Lord  Lorrimer,  you  know;  and  your  name 


Ethel  Fethreston;  but  I ought  not  to 
tell  you,  ought  I ?” 

Of  course  you  ought.  I’m  so  lonely 
here;  I don’t  know  anybody;  won’t  you 
take  pity  on  me.^” 

Miss  Ethel  Fethreston’s  partners  were 
always  prepared  to  resign  themselves  to 
her  non-appearance  when  they  had  a right 
to  expect  her,  but  on  this  eventful  night 
they  had  a more  uniformly  bad  time  than 
usual.  The  butterfly  was  singed  at  last, 
and  both  she  and  Rex  found  themselves 
hopelessly  in  love  with  one  another  when 
her  sister  and  her  brother-in-law  found 
them  at  last,  still  strolling  round  the 
grounds,  and  with  much  sternness  of  man- 
ner and  acerbity  of  countenance,  took  her 
home  in  the  small  hours  of  the  morning.  " 


254 


The  Silence  of 


Next  day,  impelled  by  a desire  to  revisit 
the  theatre  of  his  joy  of  the  night  before, 
Rex  took  a hansom  and  drove  down  to 
call  on  Lady  Oswald.  Her  ladyship  greeted 
him  with  the  words: 

“ Well,  Mr.  Stanhope,  for  a Lothario  of 
your  age  you  are  really  du  dernier  chic^ 
monopolizing  the  one  unmonopolizable 
beauty  of  my  ball  for  the  whole  evening.*’ 
Why,  how  do  you  mean.  Lady  Oswald?”* 

‘^Only  this,  my  dear  boy,  that  if  Eugene 
Cheriton  hears  of  your  performance  of 
last  night,  there  will  probably  be  trouble.” 
And  who  is  Eugene  Cheriton?” 

“Who  is  Eugene  Cheriton?  Why,  bless 
the  boy!  he’s  only  the  man  who  is  to  marry 
Ethel  Fethreston  this  day  fortnight!” 

He  Ht  Hi  * iic 

Poor  Rex!  It  was  his  first  lesson,  but 
he  learnt  it  with  a rapidity  that  did  him 
credit.  “ Does  she — does  she  love  him?  ” 
asked  he,  a trifle  huskily. 

“Well,  I’m  afraid  not,  poor  child!”  an- 
swered Lady  Oswald;  “but  he’s  very  well 


Afrs,  Cheriton  s Child?' en. 


255 


off,  and  the  Fethrestons  haven’t  a penny  to 
bless  themselves  with.  Ethel  lives  with  her 
sister  and  brother-in-lnw,  and  they  treat 
her  as  a kind  of  upper  servant,  and  no 
doubt,  have  made  her  accept  Mr.  Cheriton 
to  get  rid  of  her.  It’s  a cruel  thing,  per- 
haps for  her  at  present,  but  it  will  be  all 
right  in  time;  these  Diarriages  de convenancc 
are  generally  the  happiest  after  all.  But 
I tell  you  all  about  it  so  that  you  mayn’t 
fall  in  love  with  her  yourself.” 

Well,  well!  He  was  a younger  son,  with- 
out a chance  against  his  rich  rival,  and  he 
got  back  to  his  rooms  almost  blind  in  his 
agony  of  mind.  He  went  to  a florist’s  and 
bought  a great  bunch  of  Rucharis  lilies, 
which  he  sent  to  her  with  a note — a little 
pathetic  note — in  which  he  told  her  he  had 
heard  of  her  engagement,  and  hoped  she 
would  be  very,  very  happy,  and  would  she 
accept  these  lilies  and  remember  a fellow 
who  was  very  grateful  to  her  for  the  happy 
hours  she  had  contributed  to  his  life? — and 


256 


The  Silence  of 


good-bye — he  did  not  think  it  likely  that 
they  would  ever  meet  again. 

A couple  of  hours  later  his  flowers  were 
returned  to  him,  and  with  them  his  note, 
across  which,  in  the  handwriting  of  her 
brother-in-law,  was  scribbled  a hideous,  in- 
sulting message. 

Flung  brutally  from  the  altitude  of  his 
new-born  hopes,  Rex  Stanhope  for  some 
days  went  about  as  one  suddenly  awakened 
from  a dream  half-ecstatic,  half-nightmare, 
striving  to  distinguish  the  one  from  the 
other,  and  to  recollect  whether  it  had  been 
wholly  the  one  or  wholly  the  other.  Dur- 
ing those  days  he  tottered  on  the  brink  of 
a precipice,  a precipice  overhanging  a 
grisly  gulf  of  wanton  dissipation,  in  which 
to  seek  to  drown  the  memory  of  his  false 
first  love.  Then  his  resolution  was  taken. 
He  would  become  great,  he  would  keep 
himself  unspotted  from  the  world,  and 
make  for  himself  a position  that  should 
make  her  regret  him — should  make  her  re- 
gret her  hurry  to  marry  the  first  rich  man 


Airs.  Cheritons  Children. 


257 


who  offered  himself,  regret  the  callous  cru- 
elty with  which  she  had  played  with  him 
for  an  evening,  and  then  flung  him  from 
her  as  a disappointing  toy. 

II. 

And  so  Rex  Stanhope,  to  whose  appear- 
ance ‘‘in  town”  more  than  a few  society 
matrons  had  looked  forward,  became  a 
kind  of  hermit,  devoting  himself  to  his 
books  and  his  manuscripts,  travelling  with 
avidity  whenever  the  opportunity  presented 
itself,  appearing  but  seldom  in  the  places 
where  “ his  world  ” congregated  to  amuse 
itself,  and  never  anywhere  where  there  was 
the  remotest  possibility  of  his  meeting  Ethe 
Fethreston.  Meanwhile,  in  the  columns  of 
“The  Saturday  Review”  and  “The  Athe- 
naeum,” in  the  pages  of  the  “ Contemporary 
Review”  and  the  “Fortnightly,”  his  name 
began  to  appear,  until,  four  years  after  the 
evening  of  Lady  Oswald’s  party,  his  was 
one  of  the  names  most  prominent  among 
those  of  the  younger  writers  of  the  day. 

Four  years  had,  as  I say,  elapsed  since 
that  eventful  night,  and  during  that  time  he 


The  Silence  of 


258 


had  heard  but  seldom  of  Mrs.  Cheriton, 
and  what  he  did  hear  made  his  heart  ache. 
Cheriton  had  not  mar7Hed  his  wife — few 
men  do  now-a-days;  he  had  merely  collected 
her  as  he  would  have  collected  any  other 
specimen  of  bric-a-brac  which  nobody  else 
has  got  or  possibly  can  get,  and  having 
collected  her,  he  was  jealous,  cold,  calcu- 
lating, cunning.  Worse  still,  he  was  brutal, 
unfaithful,  cruel  to  her,  developing,  one-by- 
one,  all  the  meaner  vices  most  likely  to  dis- 
gust a sensitive,  refined  woman;  and  Ethel 
Cheriton  had  ample  opportunities  of  appre- 
ciating the  magnitude  of  the  crime  her 
relations  had  committed  in  forcing  her,  and 
of  the  mistake  she  had  made  in  allowing 
herself  to  be  forced,  into  this  unhallowed 
marriage  de  convenance.  During  the  sec- 
ond year  of  their  marriage  she  had  become 
the  mother  of  twin  daughters;  and  it  was 
this  tender  tie  alone  that  kept  her  at  the 
side  of  the  man  to  whom  she  was — already 
— “ something  dearer  than  his  dog,  a little 
better  than  his  horse.” 


Airs.  Cheritons  Children. 


259 


For,  from  a light-hearted — nay,  frivolous 
girl,  Ethel  Cheriton  had  become  a high- 
minded,  chivalrous  woman.  The  sudden 
awakening  in  her  soul  of  a genuine  ideal 
love  for  Rex  Stanhope,  when  it  was  ^‘just 
too  late,”  had  sobered  her  charactei,  and 
made  her  steadfast  in  her  determination  to 
do  her  duty  to  this  man  who  had  bought 
the  right  to  become  the  father  of  her  chil- 
dren— her  children,  in  whom  all  the  wild 
love  of  her  passionate  nature  had  become 
concentrated.  She  knew  that  Rex  was 
avoiding  her,  and  she  bowed  her  head  be- 
fore her  punishment.  She  had  never  seen 
him  since  the  ball.  Better  so,  she  thought, 
for  after  all  what  could  an  explanation  have 
done?  None  at  all;  indeed,  it  might  be 
dangerous;  but  this  she  never  admitted, 
even  to  herself.  Meanwhile,  her  friends» 
seeing  her  grow  more  miserable  day-by- 
day, in  spite  of  her  still  matchless,  devel- 
oped womanly  beauty,  urged  her  to  take 
advantage  of  her  ample  cause  for  the  step, 
and  divorce  the  man  who  w^as  making  her 


26o 


The  Silence  of 


life  a hell  for  her,  before  her  children 
should  be  old  enough  to  realize  the  state 
of  affairs.  But  no;  to  their  suggestions 
she  turned  an  ever-deaf  ear  for  her  very 
children’s  sake;  for  their  sake  she  listened 
in  dull,  cold  resignation  to  the  only  too 
well  founded  scandals  that  attached  them- 
selves to  her  husband’s  name;  and  things 
were  in  this  state  in  the  winter  of  the  year 

i8— . 

One  afternoon  in  early  January,  Rex 
started  out  to  call  on  a friend  in  Queen’s 
Gate,  started  out  in  the  midst  of  a driving 
snow-storm,  with  many  imprecations  upon 
the  necessity  that  drove  him  forth.  Un- 
fortunately he  had  bound  himself  by  a 
promise  to  pay  this  call,  which  was  one  of 
adieu^  and  punctually  at  the  hour  he  had 
named,  he  rang  the  bell  at  his  friend’s 
house.  In  answer  to  his  enquiry  the  grave 
domestic  replied: 

“ Not  at  home.” 

‘‘But,”  replied  Rex,  naturally  irritated 
that  his  comfortless  expedition  should  have 


Mrs.  Cheritons  Children. 


261 


been  made  in  vain,  “Mrs. told  me  she 

would  be  in  at  this  time;  will  you  tell  her,  if 
you  please,  when  she  returns,  that ?” 

“Oh!”  interrupted  the  servant,  “Mrs. 

is  expected  home  every  moment,  and 

left  word  that  if  any  one  called  they  were 
to  be  asked  to  wait.” 

Somewhat  soothed  by  this  assurance, 
Rex  decided  to  remain;  and  he  made  his 
way  upstairs  to  the  drawing-room.  Seated 
in  a low  arm-chair  before  the  fire,  also  evi- 
dently waiting  for  Mrs. sat  Ethel 

Cheriton!  How  little  changed!  And  yet, 
how  far  more  dazzlingly  beautiful  in  her 
mature  woman-hood  than  when  he  parted 
from  her  in  those  bygone  years!  After  a 
momentary  stupefaction,  a rush  of  blood 
to  the  heart,  an  instant  during  which 
neither  of  them  could  speak,  they  had 
warmly  shaken  hands,  and  sitting  on  either 
side  of  the  fire-place,  found  themselves 
calmly  talking  the  banalites  of  every  day  as 
if  their  meeting  was  an  ordinary  matter  of 
daily  occurence. 


262 


The  Silence  of 


So  it  was  you^  of  all  people  in  the 
world,”  said  Mrs.  Cheriton,  ^‘whom  Mrs. 

was  expecting.  I came  to  call,  more 

to  shelter  from  the  storm  than  anything 

else,  and  the  butler  told  me  that  Mrs. 

had  left  word  that  I was  to  wait.  I was 
surprised,  but  said  nothing,  half-glad  not 
to  have  to  go  away  again,  half-curious  to 
find  out  who  the  anxiously  expected  guest 
was.  So  it  is  you  who  are  the  cavalih'e  so 
serviente  that  we  leave  messages  that  he  is 
not  to  be  sent  away!” 

^^No,  Mrs.  Cheriton,  mine  is  merely  a 
conventional  visit  of  adieu  before  starting 
for  Spain.  As  I am  a hardworking  son  of 
toil,  you  know,  I only  call  on  people  I 
really  want  to  see,  and  therefore  I let  them 
know  when  I am  coming.”  He  paused 
slightly,  and  then  continued,  You,  of  all 
people  on  earth,  should  know  that  I am 
never  likely  to  be  any  woman’s  cavalilre 
sirviente.'' 

She  said  nothing  for  a few  moments, 
but  turned  a shade  paler,  as,  after  what 


Mrs.  Cher  if  on  s Children. 


263 


seemed  to  be  a momentary  hesitation,  she 
said: 

“ Mr.  Stanhope,  I am  glad  we  have  met 
at  last — after  all  this  time;  there  has  always 
been  something  on  my  mind  which  I should 
have  been  glad  to  have  spoken  to  you 
about.  Before — before  I was  married- — you 
were  kind  enough  to  send  me  some  flowers 
one  day — at  least  I heard  so  afterwards; 
and — my  brother-in-law  returned  them  to 
you.  I could’nt — I could’nt  write  an 
apology  for  his  rudeness,  and — I always 
hoped  some  day  to  meet  you  and  tell  you  I 
was  sorry.” 

^‘You  might  have  written  one  word  to 
answer  my  note,  in  addition  to,  or  rather, 
to  soften,  your  brother-in-law’s  comment 
on  it.” 

“Your  note!  What  note?” 

“ Why,  the  one  he  returned  with  the 
flowers.” 

“I  don’t  understand  you;  what  do  you 
mean?” 

“Do  you  mean  to  say  that  you  never 


264 


The  Silence  of 


knew  that  I had  written  you  a note  with 
those  flowers,  conveying  to  you  my  wishes 
for  your  happiness/' 

‘‘Never — never!  Oh  the  cruelty  of  it! 
Ah;  why  did  I never  receive  it!  I should 
have  prized  it  so.”  And  she  bent  her  beau- 
tiful head  forward  upon  her  hands. 

Stanhope  had  risen,  and  had  walked  in 
his  agitation  to  the  window.  Now  he 
turned  and  advancing  toward  her  drew  his 
letter-case  from  his  pocket.  Taking  from  it 
a time-worn  and  oft-unfolded  and  refolded 
letter,  he  held  it  out  to  her,  saying: 

“Well,  here  it  is.” 

She  took  it  and  said,  hardly  above  a 
whisper:  “And  you  have  kept  it  ever 
since!” 

“Yes,”  he  replied,  in  a dry,  strained 
voice,  “ I have  kept  it  ever  since  as  a 
lesson — as  a punishment  for  my  folly  in 
believing  that  there  was  any  truth  in 
woman's  love.  Whenever  I have  been 
speaking  to  any  fair  young  girl,  or  when- 
ever any  friend  of  mine  has  married,  I 


Airs.  Cheriton  s Children. 


265 


have  taken  it  from  my  pocket-book,  and  said 
to  myself,  ‘‘That  is  the  fruit  jwr  love  has 
borne;  you  have  pocketed  that  insult  as  its 
reward.  Beware!  do  not  sin  again!” 

“Oh  Rex!” 

He  seized  the  poor  imploring  hands  that 
were  held  out  to  him,  and  gazing  deep 
through  her  eyes  into  her  soul,  he  said 
sternly: 

“ Do  you  swear  to  me  that  you  never 
knew  I had  written  to  you?” 

“I  swear  it.” 

* 

When  Mrs. came  in  ten  minues  later, 

she  was  quite  overjoyed  at  this  strange 
meeting  of  old  friends,  and  when  it  was 
time  to  go,  she  was  sure  Mr.  Stanhope 
would  see  Mrs.  Cheriton  safely  home. 

Ah  Rex!  why  did  you  not  keep  that  piti- 
ful token  of  your  great,  faithful  love  hidden 
away  :n  your  pocket-book?  Had  you  done  so 
you  would  have  been  now  the  brilliant  man 
you  gave  promise  of  being,  and  Ethel  Cheri- 
ton would  have  been  home  with  her  children. 


266 


The  Silence  of 


III. 

Do  not  let  the  reader  run  away  with  any 
evil  interpretation  of  the  last  paragraph. 
Specifically,  Rex  Stanhope  had  no  hand  in 
the  fall  of  Ethel  Cheriton;  but  had  they 
never  met  she  might  have  gone  on  in  the  old 
painful  groove,  upheld  by  her  stern  sense 
of  duty.  But  alas!  having  refound  her 
old — her  only  love^  a man  of  refinement, 
of  cultivation — in  a phrase,  a scholar  and  a 
gentleman,  her  loathing  of  the  ignorant 
sensualist  .to  whom  she  was  tied  became  the 
more  intense,  the  more  violent,  by  contrast. 
Her  new  born,  constant  intercourse  with 
Rex  Stanhope,  an  intercourse  of  sympathy 
in  which  no  word  of  love  was  ever  breathed, 
turned  her  thoughts  continually  in  the  di- 
rection of  the  terrible  future,  as  contrasted 
with  the  exquisite  ‘^might-have-been;”  and 
at  last  one  day  she  announced  to  Rex  her 
intention  of  obtaining  from  her  husband  a 
formal  separation — not  a divorce;  that, 
said  she,  would  rebound  in  after  years  on 
her  children. 


Mrs.  Cheritori  s Children. 


267 


But  she  had  quite  made  up  her  mind  no 
longer  to  bear  the  continued  agony  of  a 
life  which,  always  revolting  to  her,  had  be- 
come doubly  so  since  that  winter’s  after- 
noon. It  was  useless  to  attempt  to  dissuade 
her;  she  had  the  right  on  her  side  un- 
doubtedly; and  one  day,  when,  in  the 
course  of  a quarrel  on  some  point  concern- 
ing the  children,  Eugene  Cheriton  had 
struck  her  to  the  ground  in  his  drunken 
fury,  she  felt  that  the  last  straw  had  been 
added  td  her  load,  and — separated  form- 
ally from  the  man  who  had  ^‘collected”  her, 
she  took  a little  flat  in  Kensington,  and 
devoted  herself  thenceforward  to  her  chil- 
dren — her  children,  on  whose  account 
alone  she  had  refrained  from  obtaining  a 
definitive  divorce. 

What  of  Rex  Stanhope?  He  took  the 
only  course  possible  under  the  circum- 
stances. Sufficiently  wise  in  the  ways  of 
the  world  to  know  what  he  would  bring 
upon  the  woman  he  loved,  if  he  allowed  his 
intimacy  with  her  to  continue,  now  that  she 


268 


The  Silence  of 


no  longer  lived  beneath  her  husband’s  roof, 
and  knowing  moreover  the  weakness  of 
human  nature  too  well  to  exclude  himself 
and  her  from  its  penalties,  he  announced 
his  intention  of  travelling;  and,  in  spite  of 
the  entreaties  of  Ethel  and  the  remon- 
strances of  his  friends,  he  started  on  a 
tour  of  the  world  that  should  occupy  some 
years  at  least. 

No  one  knew  the  cause  of  his  self-im- 
posed exile,  for  in  his  horror  of  comprom- 
ising  Ethel,  he  had  kept  their  affairs  relig- 
ously  to  himself,  maintaining  before  the 
world  merely  a footing  of  ordinary  social 
acquaintanceship.  One  man  alone  knew 
anything  at  all  about  it,  and  even  he  did 
not  know  the  name  of  the  woman  who  had 
come  thus  into  his  friend’s  life,  though 
Rex  told  him,  step-by-step,  the  circumstan- 
ces which  had  led  him  to  the  course  he 
had  adopted.  This  man  was  myself,  Dick 
Lyster,  a school  and  college  friend  who 
was  more  than  a brother  to  Rex,  the  only 
man  who  was  in  a position  to  remonstrate 


Mrs.  C her  it 071  s Children. 


269 


with  him  on  the  step  he  was  taking,  in 
severing  all  his  newly-cemented  ties  to  the 
old  country,  in  giving  up  his  brilliant  pros- 
pects as  a writer  and  politician,  and  in 
expatriating  himself  at  four-and-twenty 
for  the  sake  of  some — to  me,  the  mentor, 
— unknown  woman. 

It's  no  use  arguing,  old  man,"  Stan- 
hope had  said  in  answer  to  my  remon- 
strances; “ if  I had  not  come  back  into  her 
life,  if  I had  not  committed  the  cursed 
folly  of  showing  her  that  her  image  had 
never  left  my  breast,  she  would  never  have 
left  her  husband.  Now  that  she  has  taken 
the  step,  unless  I efface  myself  we  must  be 
thrown  more  intimately  together  than  ever, 
and  then — well,  we  are  only  human  crea- 
tures after  all!  No!  I shall  go,  and  you 
must  admit  that  I am  doing  right.  My 
memory,  and  the  memory  of  the  sacrifice  I 
have  made  to  her  of  my  life,  will  be  the 
sheet-anchor  of  her  womanly  purity,  and  in 
giving  her  an  ideal,  an  ideal  that  I know 
that  I could  not  keep  up  if  I were  always 


2^0 


The  Silence  of 


by  her  side,  I am  making  but  a very  mea- 
gre reparation  for  the  wrong  I have  done 
her  and  her  children,  by  causing  indirectly 
this  separation.” 

It  was  chivalrous,  it  was  Quixotic,  it  was 
absurd;  but  his  mind  was  made  up,  and 
Rex  disappeared.  People  asked  after  him 
sometimes,  and  the  answer  was  always: 

“ Oh,  he’s  still  idling  round  the  world. 
He  didn’t  stick  to  his  ambition  long;  no 
doubt  there’s  a woman  in  it  somewhere!” 

IV 

How  continually,  continually  we  hear 
women  envy  the  position  of  men.  How 
often  it  has  occured  to  all  of  us  to  hear  a 
woman  say,  I wish  I were  a man!”  and 
though  we  smile  and  tell  them  they  don’t 
know  what  they  are  talking  about,  if  we 
stop  to  think  for  a moment,  how  absolutely 
they  have  reason!  And  why  should  we 
condone^  pardon,  and,  if  the  truth  must  be 
told,  rather  admire  in  man,  what  we  loathe 
and  condemn  in  woman?  Is  it  worse  in 


Mrs.  Cheritons  Children.  271 

woman  to  be  impure,  than  it  is  in  man?  Is 
it  worse  in  her  than  in  him  to  be  unchaste, 
to  be  unsexed,  to  be  contemptible?  If,  as 
is  generally  admitted,  woman  is  the  weaker 
vessel,  in  God’s  name  is  it  not  a thousand- 
fold more  vile  in  man,  whose  intellect  is 
the  stronger,  as  a rule,  to  yield  to  the  weak- 
ness of  a moment,  than  it  is  in  woman? 
If  a man  and  a woman  sin  equally  to- 
gether, why  is  it  the  woman  alone  who  is 
blamed,  on  whom  alone  a lasting  stigma 
rests?  The  sin  has  been  born  of  the  supe- 
rior strength,  mental  and  physical,  of  the 
man  over  the  woman.  Is  it  not  he  that 
should  be  chastised  rather  than  she?  for  his 
is  the  initative,  and  his, as  a rule,  is  the  action. 
In  a joint  crime  of  whatever  kind,  it  is  always 
the  woman  who  is  commanded  and  di- 
rected by  the  man;  but,  in  the  subsequent 
record,  it  is  always  he  who  had  been 
brought  to  grief  by  her  and  not  her  by  him. 
She  is  a ‘‘fiend,”  an  “adventuress,”  whilst 
he  is  only  a weak  man!  Oh!  it  is  horrible,' 
it  is  Idchc.,  it  is  infdme\ 


272 


The  Silence  of 


And  how  infinitely  worse  than  this  is  the 
case  which  occurs  every  day,  the  case  in 
which  the  marital  tie  has  been  severed, 
either  by  separation  or  by  divorce.  Is  it  not 
always  the  woman — to  our  shame  be  it  said 
— on  w^hom  the  blame  invariably  falls?  A 
man  is  cruel,  brutal,  unfaithful,  to  his  wife; 
she  bears  it  as  long  as  she  can,  and  at  last, 
driven  to  the  step  in  self-defence,  or  in  de- 
fence of  her  innocent  children,  she  is  com- 
pelled— with  the  fullest  approval  of  all  who 
know  the  circumstances  of  the  case — to 
sue  for  a separation,  or  even  for  a divorce. 
For  a week — perhaps,  if  she  is  lucky,  for  a 
month — she  is  sympathized  with  and  sup- 
ported, and  then  people  who  know  nothing 
at  all  about  it  begin  to  whisper  among 
themselves.  Who  is  she?’’  Oh,  that’s 

the  beautiful  Mrs. . Poor  thing!  you 

know  she  had  trouble  with  her  husband.” 

Second  stage,  ‘‘  That\  Oh!  that’s  Mrs. 

; she’s  separated  from  her  husband, 

you  know.”  Oh!” 

Third  stage,  “Ah!  Mrs. 


? Yes; 


Mrs.  Chei'itons  ' Children. 


273 


Air. was  a cousin  of  the  So-and-so’s; 

they  don’t  live  together.  Shall  I introduce 
you?”  “Well,  thanks,  I think  not.  One  has 
to  be  so  careful  now-a-days.” 

Fourth  stage,  “ Is  that  the  Mrs. 

who  was  separated  from  her  husband?” 
“Yes.”  “How  was  it?”  “Oh,  he  was  a 
happy-go-lucky  sort  of  a fellow,  and  they 
didn’t  get  on.  No  doubt  there  were  faults 
on  both  sides.”  “Ah!” 

Fifth  stage,  “Who's  the  man  so  devoted 

to  Mrs. , the  one  who  was  divorced, 

or  something,  you  know?”  “ Well,  I don’t 
know,  but  a very  old  friend  I believe.” 
“Oh!” 

Sixth  stage,  “Well,  he  couldn’t  stand  it 
any  longer,  and  had  to  get  rid  of  her;  they 
say  he’s  never  got  over  it.” 

Seventh  stage,  “Why  did  he  let  her 
keep  her  children  with  her?”  “Well,  you 
know,  he  thought  that  they  might  perhaps 
keep  her  straight,  but  I’m  afraid,  etc.,  etc., 
etc.” 

And  so  it  goes  on,  on,  on,  vires  que  ac- 


274 


The  Silence  of 


quirit  emtdOj  like  a snowball;  and  at  last  the 
victim,  forsaken  by  all  the  friends  who, 
greedy  of  some  new  sensation,  espoused 
her  cause  so  warmly  at  the  first,  finds  her- 
self relegated  to  the  society  of  fast  men* 
and  declassees  women,  and  in  nine  cases  out 
of  ten  takes  up  willingly  the  role  that  is 
thrust  upon  her.  The  end  comes  in  her 
making  a single  slip,  wearied  out  and  sick 
at  heart  at  being  pointed  at  as  guilty  of 
sins  of  which  she  is  spotlessly  innocent. 
She  sees  other  women  around  her  leading 
happy,  or  apparently  happy,  and  brilliant 
lives;  the  ^‘set”  into  which  she  has  become 
transplanted,  and  in  which  she  seems  to 
have  taken  root,  think  her  unnecessary 
‘^principles"  rather  contemptible  than 
otherwise — like  the  fox  who  lost  his  tail; 
she  finds  herself  deserted  and  despised; 
and  one  day,  maddened  by  her  hopeless 
yearning  for  love  and  friendship 

* * !|J 

Such  was  the  history  of  Ethel  Cheriton. 
Cheriton,  after  his  wife  left  him,  had,  with 


Mrs.  Cher  it  oris  Children. 


275 


the  cunning  of  the  serpent,  led  a life  that 
was  discretion  itself,  watching  her  the 
while  with  a ceaseless  vigilance,  and  keep- 
ing himself  informed  of  her  every  move- 
ment. At  last  his  opportunity  came.  For 
the  sake  of  her  children  she  had  not  di- 
vorced him\  now  he  turned  upon  her  ruth- 
lessly, and  petitioned  against  her  for  the 
divorce,  the  indignity  of  which  she  had 
spared  him;  and  one  day,  Rex  Stanhope, 
slowly  accomplishing  the  last  stages  of  his 
journey  round  the  world,  took  up  the  Times 
in  the  English  Club  in  the  Rue  de  Pera  at 
Constantinople,  and  read: 

PROBATE,  DIVORCE  AND  ADMIRALTY 
DIVISION. 

BEFORE  THE  PRESIDENT. 

Cheriton  vs.  Cheriton  and  De  Torriano. 

This  was  a suit  by  Eugene  Cheriton,  a 
gentleman  of  independent  means,  for  the 
dissolution  of  his  marriage  with  Ethel  Cher- 
iton, whose  maiden  name*  was  Fethrestone, 
on  account  of  her  misconduct  with  Ippolito 


276 


The  Silence  of 


de  Torriano.  Dr.  Bayard  appeared  for  the 
Petitioner.  There  was  no  defence. 

The  Petitioner  was  married  to  the  res- 
pondent in  18 — , and  they  lived  together 
up  to  May,  18 — . There  are  two  children 
of  the  marriage.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cheriton 
lived  happily  in  the  earlier  portion  of  their 
married  life,  but  in  18 — he  had  reason  to 
complain  of  her  conduct  and  quarrels  en- 
sued between  them.  In  May,  18 — , they 
separated,  he  securing  to  her  by  deed  an 

annuity  of , which  he  has  since  paid 

quarterly.  In  June  last,  Mrs.  Cheriton 
and  the  correspondent,  who  is  a singer, 
were  served  with  citations  in  this  suit. 

Decree  nisi.,  with  costs  against  the  co- 
respondent, the  petitioner  to  have  the  custody 
of  the  children  of  the  marriageT 


This  is  what  Rex  Stanhope,  after  two 
years,  during  which  he  had  heard  no  word 
about  the  Cheritons,  read  in  the  Club  at 
Pera.  That  night,  for  the  first  time  in  his 
life,  he  played  high  and  drank  recklessly. 
In  the  early  morning  he  was  sent  home  to 


Mrs,  Che  ri to  ns  Children, 


277 


his  rooms  insensible;  but  for  weeks  he  sank 
lower  and  lower,  striving  in  vain  to  drown 
his  agony  in  the  worst,  and  to  him  hitherto 
absolutely  unknown,  forms  of  disipation. 
The  sudden  change  shocked  and  alarmed 
his  friends  in  the  English  colony  at  Con- 
stantinople; and  at  last,  though  with  great 
difficulty,  they  persuaded  him  to  turn  his 
face  homewards.  He  stopped  in  Vienna, 
where  the  same  thing  re-commenced,  and 
he  had  to  fly  from  the  Austrian  capital  at 
dead  of  night  to  escape  the  consequences 
of  the  part  he  had  taken  in  some  drunken 
riot,  and  arriving  in  Paris,  he  sank  rapidly 
to  the  nethermost  abysses  of  infamy.  Ail 
this  time  we,  in  England,  knew  nothing  of 
it,  for  no  one  knew  his  address:  we  ex- 
pected him  home  almost  daily,  but  alas — 
he  never  came! 

One  morning  his  eldest  brother  received 
from  Paris  a dishevelled  package  contain- 
ing an  account  of  poor  Rex's  last  days,  and 
an  almost  undecipherable  letter  addressed 
to  me  by  the  dead  boy,  containing  an  ac- 


278 


The  Silence  of 


count  of  his  first  and  last  meeting  with 
Ethel  Cheriton,  whom  still  he  did  not  name^ 
bitterly  reproaching  himself  with  having 
caused  her  fall,  remorse  for  which  crime 
doubtless,  had  driven  him  to  his  terrible 
end.  During  a lucid  interval  at  Constanti- 
nople, when  he  had  been  intending  to  kill 
himself,  he  had  made  a will  leaving  what 
little  property  he  had  to  the  woman, 
who,  forsaken  by  the  man  who  had  com- 
pleted her  fall,  was  living  in  misery  abject 
and  shameful  in  one  of  the  slums  of  Pim- 
lico. This  will,  carefully  sealed  up,  he  en- 
closed, that  his  brother  might  carry  its  pro- 
visions into  qperation;  and,  by  the  consent 
of  his  father,  who  did  not  wish  to  court 
publicity  in  the  affair  by  contesting  a will 
made  under  such  circumstances,  this  was 
done  by  the  family  solicitors. 

God  help  her,  poor  girl!  Without  this 
meagre  sustenance  I tremble  to  think  what 
would  have  become  of  her. 

I went  over  to  Paris  with  his  brother  to 
bring  home  his  body,  and  there,  for  the 


Mrs^  Cheritons  Children,  279 

first  time,  I saw  the  picture,  the  duplicate 
of  which  I recognized  as  being  that  of  Mrs. 
Cheriton,  years  after,  in  far  away  New  York. 
We  hushed  matters  up  so  far  as  it  was  possi- 
ble; and  our  task  was  rendered  easier  by  the 
fact  that  Mrs.  Cheriton’s  husband  and  chil- 
dren had  left  for  America,  and  the  will  was 
made  out  in  her  maiden  name  of  Fethres- 
tone,  a name  which  she  had  now  resumed. 
Thus  it  happened  that,  though  I alone 
knew  the  story  of  Rex  Stanhope’s  blasted 
life,  I never  knew  the  name  of  the  woman 
more  sinned  against  than  sinning,  but 
whose  story  is,  alasf  such  a common  one. 

With  all  his  strength  of  character,  Rex 
Stanhope  committed  one  folly,  and  it 
ruined  one  of  the  most  promising  careers 
in  England:  in  the  midst  of  all  her  self- 
devotion  and  grand  forbearance  for  her 
children’s  sake,  Ethel  Cheriton  made  one 
slip,  of  which  her  dastardly  husband  took 
advantage  to  found  upon  it  his  sham  respec- 
tability. There  was  only  one  way  in  which 
to  stifle  all  account  of  the  ruin  he  had 


28o  The  Silence  of  Mrs,  Cheritons  Children. 


wrought  in  two  lives,  each  a thousandfold 
purer  and  better  than  his  own,  and  that 
was  to  impose  a silence  like  that  of  the 
grave  upon  Mrs.  Cheriton's  children. 


THE  END. 


v.  . 

Wr: 


; »•••. . j, 


If . . 


■v* 


